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SPRING. 


Wayside  Blossoms 

OF 

PROSE  and  POETRY 

dF" 

Selected  from  the  Choicest  Productions  of  Every  Clime, 
with  a View  to  Acquaint  Older  Boys  and 
Girls  with  the  Best  in  Literature. 

TOGETHER  WITH 

Dialogues,  Character  Ballads  and  Exercises 

FOR  HOME  AND  SCHOOL  ENTERTAINMENT. 

. — m- — 

Superbly  Illustrated  with  Full-Page  Illustrations  by  the  Best  Artists. 


3.  ©.  & GO. 

CHICAGO. 


feb i s ’37  g.Mfis  *<NHeadejD£  > /Y  ■ hoover 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  ’ 

April  The  Bull 41 

August — The  Virgin 73 

Autumn 227 

December — The  Sea  Goat 103 

Down  in  the  Fields 161 

February — The  Fishes 25 

God  Gave  Me  Children 139 

I'm  Sum  min’  Up  My  Mercies 167 

It  is  Nothing  to  Me 153 

January — The  Water  Bearer 17 

July— The  Lion 65 

June — The  Crab 57 

Learning  To  Read  Was  Awful 115 

March— The  Ram 33 

May— The  Twins 49 

Music  Hath  Charms 109 

My  Hen  and  I 132 

November — The  Archer  97 

O Baby  with  Soft  Eyes  of  Blue 145 

October — The  Scorpion 89 

Ready  Sympathy 217 

September— The  Balance 81 

Spring— Frontispiece 2 

Summer 195 

The  Brook  Don’t  Seem  To  Ripple  Like  It  Used  Ter’.  11 

The  Falling  Leaves 243 

The  Rain  Wagon 125 

’Tis  Beauteous  Night 119 

To  the  End  of  the  Chapter 189 

What  Will  It  Matter  ? 181 

Who  Sent  the  Valentine  ? 175 

Winter 205 

997564  5 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


A Boy’s  Wecome  to  Spring 

Abraham  Lincoln Mark  Lemon. 

A Little  Boy’s  Thoughts 

April — The  Bull Margaret  Johnson. 

Asleep  at  the  Switch Ckas.  Hoey. 

August — T he  V irgin Margaret  Johnson. 

Autumn Grace  Courtland. 

Baby  and  I Elizabeth  B)  Bohan. 

Bessie’s  Christmas  Eve  Lark Gertrude  M.  Jones. 

Boys 

Charge  of  the  Rum  Brigade Mary  S.  Wheeler. 

Christmas  Bells Loula  K.  Rogers. 

Clear  the  Way 


Cover  Them  Over  with  Flowers 

Cracked 

Dead  at  Thirty  

December — The  Sea  Goat Margaret  Johnson. 

Discontent 

Disproved 

Examinations Wm.  M.  Giffen. 

Father  and  Mother 

February — The  Fishes Margaret  Johnson. 

For  New  Year’s  Eve Lizzie  M.  Hadley. 

For  the  Childrens’  Sake Mrs.  L.  G.  Me  Veagh 

God  of  Nations Rev.  Jos.  Cook. 

Good-Night  and  Good-Morning Lord  Houghton. 

His  Old  Yellow  Almanac Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

Hold  On  Boys 

Idyl  of  a Public  School 


70 

134 

114 

40 

35 

72 

220 

114 

147 

46 

61 

202 

156 

101 

179 

9 

102 

160 

175 
19 

176 
24 

229 

87 

55 

163 


137 


6 


In  Memoriam 

Is  It  Right  ? 

January — The  Water  Bearer Margaret  Johnson. 

July — The  Lion Margaret  Johnson. 

June — The  Crab Margaret  Johnson. 

Launch  of  the  Ship Longfellow. 

March — The  Ram Margaret  Johnson. 

Maternity E.  Harriet  Howe. 

May — The  Twins Margaret  Johnson. 

Memory Jas.  A . Garfield. 

Men  Wanted 

Music  Hath  Charms 

My  Hen  and  I 

My  Mercies John  W.  Beebe. 

Nothing  Like  Trying 

November — The  Archer Margaret  Johnson. 

October— The  Scorpion Margaret  Johnson. 

Only  An  Emigrant 

Only  A Song 

Ready  Sympathy G.  Weatherly. 

Scott  and  the  Veteran Bayard  Taylor. 

September — The  Balance Margaret  Johnson. 

Since  Nellie  Went  Away Chas.  Eugene  Banks. 

Soliloquy  of  Arnold Edward  C.  Jones. 

Squeers’  School Chas.  Dickens. 

Stay  on  the  Farm  

Thanksgiving  in  Ye  Olden  Time 

The  Black  Regiment Geo.  Henry  Baker. 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray 

The  Children  of  Story  Land 

Thc  Consecrating  Influence  of  the  War  for  Free- 
dom  Jas.  A.  Garfield. 

The  Count’s  Daughter 

The  Decorating  Mania 

The  Demon  of  the  Fire Edgar  Allen.  Poe. 

The  Easter  Wreath Clara  J.  Denton. 

The  Engineer 

The  Falling  Leaves 

7 


127 

152 

16 

64 

56 

141 

32 

138 

48 

118 

170 

108 

133 

166 

245 

96 

88 

106 

68 

216 

157 

80 

10 

91 

219 

69 

99 

76 

112 

248 

200 

28 

122 

51 

237 

111 

242 


The  Flight  of  the  Birds E.  C.  Stedman. 

The  Irishwoman’s  Letter Mary  Denison. 

The  Little  Black  Eyed  Rebel 

The  Little  Tin  Cup Thomas  Frost. 

The  Lucky  Horse  Shoe Jas.  T , Field. 

The  Mistletoe  Bough 

The  New  School  House 


The  Nineteenth  Century  Teacher 

The  Old 

The  Power  of  Monosyllables ..J.  Addison  Alexander. 

The  Rain  Wagon Clara  Doty  Bates. 

The  Spider  and  the  Fly Laura  Garland  Catr. 

The  Stylish  Church 

The  Tin  Bucket  and  the  Willow  Basket  Brigade  .. 

They  Say 

Time  Enough 

’Tis  Home  Where’er  Our  Flag  Is 

To  the  End  of  the  Chapter ; 

Two  Little  Hands 

Ulysses Fobt.  Buchanan. 

Uncle  Nate’s  Funeral Will  Carleton. 

Unsolved  Mysteries F.  J.  Burdette. 

Watch  Your  Words 

What  Santa  Claus  Thinks • ■ 

What  thh  old  Man  Said Alice  Robbins. 

What  Try  Does Fev.  Chas.  Spurgeon. 

What  We  Learn  at  School 

What  Will  it  Matter 

When  I’m  a Woman 

When  Santa  Claus  Comes 

Where  Do  You  Live 

Were  the  Gypsies  Go Mrs.  S.  M.  B.  Piatt 

Women  Wanted .• 

Zekle’s  Courtship 


156 

78 

185 

22 

170 

207 

60 

197 

27 

. 176 

. 124 

. 20 

93 

. 142 

117 

86 

75 

. 188 

. 183 

. 83 

. 191 

. 178 

. 67 

. 165 

. 128 

. 194 

. 45 

. 180 

245 

. 38 

43 

t.  164 

. 59 

. 210 


WAYSIDE  gbOSSOMS 

' — I'  • • r-a 

DEAD  AT  THIRTY. 

Just  for  the  sake  of  being  called  a good  fellow, 

Just  for  the  praise  of  the  sycophant  crowd, 

That  smoked  your  cigars,  quaffed  your  rich  wines 
and  mellow, 

You  are  sleeping,  to-day  ’neath  the  sod  in  your 
shroud. 

Just  for  the  sake  of  being  called  clever — dashing — 
By  human  hogs  living  outside  of  a pen, 
i'he  rain  on  your  cold  bed  is  ceaselessly  splashing, 
While  you  should  be  living — a man  among  men ! 

Just  for  the  sake  of  being  pointed  at — looked  at — 

By  the  false,  insincere,  hypocritical  crew, 

That  grows  on  the  follies  of  weak  brains — like  yours 

You  are  as  dead  as  the  dreams  your  boyish  soul 
knew. 

Y ou  feigned  a contempt  for  the  eagles  of  yellow. 

And  scattered  them  broadcast,  with  boisterous 
mirth — 

Just  for  the  sake  of  being  called  a good  fellow ! 

You  are  nothing,  to-day,  but  a boxful  of  earth. 


9 


SINCE  NELLIE  WENT  AWAY. 

HENRY  CHESTER. 

The  homestead  ain’t  ez  bright  an’  cheerful  ez  it  used 
to  be, 

The  leaves  ain’t  growin’  half  so  green  upon  the  maple 
tree — 

The  brook  don’t  seem  ter  ripple  like  it  used  ter,  down 
the  hill — ■ 

The  bobolinks  appear  ter  hev  a some’at  sadder  thrill ; 

The  waivin’  corn  hez  lost  its  gold,  the  sunshine  ain’t 
so  bright, 

The  day  is  growin’  shorter  jest  ter  make  a longer 
night; 

There  is  somethin’  gnawin’  at  my  heart  I guess  hez 
come  to  stay; 

The  world  ain’t  been  the  same  to  me  since  Nellie 
went  away. 

The  old  piano  over  there  I gave  her  when  a bride — 

It  ain’t  been  played  upon  but  once  since  she  took  sick 
and  died; 

An’  then  a neighbor’s  girl  come  in  an’  struck  up  “ Old 
Black  Joe,” 

An’  “ When  the  Swallows  Homeward  Fly,”  an’  some- 
how, don’t  you  know, 

It  almost  made  me  crazy,  wild  with  anguish  an’  des- 
pair— 

I saw  her  sittin’  at  the  keys,  but  knew  she  wasn’t 
there, 

io 


An’  that  is  why  I never  want  to  hear  the  old  thing 
play — 

The  music  don’t  sound  natural  since  Nellie  went 
away. 


The  parson  tells  me  every  man  hez  got  ter  have  his 
woe — 

His  argument  is  good,  perhaps,  for  he  had  orter 
know — 

But  then  it’s  hard  for  everyone  ter  allers  see  the 
right  _ 

In  turnin"  pleasure  into  pain  an’  sunshine  into  night ; 

I guess  it’s  all  included  in  the  Maker’s  hidden  plan— 
It  takes  a heap  o’  grief  an’  \yoe  ter  temper  up  a man. 
I sympathize  with  any  fellow  when  I hear  him  say, 
The  world  don’t  seem  the  same  to  him  since  some 
one  went  away. 


The  scripture  says  that,  in  His  own  sweet  way,  if  we 
but  wait, 

The  Lord’ll  take  our  burdens  an’  set  crooked  matters 
straight; 

An’  there’s  a hope  that  all  the  grief  an  aching  heart 
can  hold, 

Will  be  offset  by  happiness  a hundred  million  fold, 

When  we  hev  reached  the  end  o’  life’s  eventful 
voy’ge  at  last, 

An’  all  our  pain  an’  misery  is  buried  in  the  past. 

An’  so  I’m  lookin’  for’ard  to  the  dawnin’  of  a day 

When  mebbe  it  won’t  seem  so  long  since  Nellie  went 
away. 


MEMORIAL  MORNING. 


CHAS.  EUGENE  BANKS. 

“ Virginia,  open  the  casement  there, 

I hear  the  strains  of  a martial  band 

In  the  street  below,  let  me  catch  the  air. 

The  doctor?  how;  shall  I not  command? 

“ There,  child,  forgive  me,  old  age  is  quick 
To  anger,  in  patience  a very  snail; 

But  I’ll  to  the  window ; life’s  shriveled  wick 
Shall  blaze  once  more  e’er  it  utterly  fail. 

“ Ah ! so ; the  curtain  a trifle  down ; 

Ho?  Halt  you  there  where  sunlight  plays 

So  merrily  over  your  locks  of  brown  — 

They  had  just  such  curls  in  the  dear  old  days.. 

“ My  sweet  twin  darlings.  It  can  not  be  — 
What’s  that  they  are  playing?  ‘The  Tender 
and  True?’ 

You  are  like  your  father  as  like  can  be, 

And  they  both  came  back  to  me,  both  in  you.. 

“They  are  not  forgotten!  The  Nation  halts 
In  its  greedful  rush  for  an  hour  or  so 

To  shrive  itself  of  its  baser  faults, 

Lest  it  altogether  forgetful  grow. 

“Nay,  nay,  I am  querulous,  thoughts  like  these 
Dishonor  Love’s  festal,  and  surely  I 

Should  honor  a custom  that  strips  the  trees 
For  love  of  the  dead  who  are  not  to  die. 


“ For  yonder  where  Donelson  frowns  above 
The  Cumberland  waters,  my  darlings  lie 
In  each  other’s  arms,  in  the  clasp  of  love, 

The  gray  and  the  blue,  and  they  met  to  die. 

“ God  sits  in  judgment.  To  honor  bound 

Were  both  my  boys  though  they  walked  apart. 
But  they  sleep  to-day  ’neath  a single  mound, 
Sleep  shoulder  to  shoulder  and  heart  to  heart. 

“ As  in  one  low  cradle  they  used  to  sleep, 

My  blush-rose  babies.  What,  tears,  my  child? 
For  the  Nation’s  dead  let  the  Nation  weep, 

And  kneeling  above  them  be  reconciled! 

“ If  the  palm  leaves  whispered  their  lullaby, 

Or  the  North  wind  shouted  their  cradle  song 
What  matter?  their  duty  to  do  and  die: 

Their  deeds,  not  motives,  to  us  belong. 

“ What  to  me,  if  the  flags  that  my  heroes  bore 
Were  barred  and  spangled  or  azure  thread, 

If  blue  or  gray  were  the  coats  they  wore? 

They  were  all  my  world  and  my  world  is  dead. 

“Where  mounds  are  many  go  scatter  your 
flowers 

Ye  prosperous  people;  where  mounds  are  few, 
Where  the  lone  loon  calls  to  the  lonely  hours, 
Where  the  sensitive  aspen  tree  scatters  the  dew, 

“ On  plain  or  mountain,  by  river  or  wood, 
Wherever  a soldier  is  sleeping  to-day, 

Let  fall  the  blossoms  in  fragrant  flood, 

For  sons  of  one  mother  are  the  Blue  and  the 
Gray.” 


15 


JANUARY— THE  WATER  BEARER. 

BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

Lifted  he  his  mighty  pitcher,  sparkling  to  its  dewy  brim ; 

Quoth  the  traveler,  “ Clouds  are  rising  on  the  blue 
horizon’s  rim ! ” 

Dismally  the  wind  went  moaning  through  the  with- 
ered branches  bare, 

Whirled  the  cock  upon  the  steeple,  swept  the  dry 
leaves  here  and  there, 

And  a little  damsel,  hurrying  blithely  on  her  home- 
ward way, 

Hushed  her  song,  and  glanced  with  anxious  forehead 
at  the  gathering  gray. 

Tilted  he  the  brimming  vase  till  ran  the' crystal  from 
its  lips, 

Letting  one  by  one  the  big  drops  through  his  hollowed 
fingers  drip : 

“ Well-a-day,  the  storm  is  on  us!  ” quoth  the  traveler 
looking  down, 

Closer  drew  his  cap,  and  wrapped  him  closer  in  his 
cloak  of  brown, 

And  a little  hurrying  maiden  with  her  satchel  swifter 
sped, 

While  the  thickening  drops  fell  faster  on  the.  scarlet- 
hooded  head. 

Half  in  sport,  and  half  in  sudden  anger,  weary  of  his  care, 

With  his  giant  arm  he  dashed  the  cracking  vase  into 
the  air: 

All  the  landscape,  blurred  and  blotted  in  the  pouring 
rain  and  sleet, 

Swam  before  the  drenched  and  draggled  traveler, 
toiling  through  the  street. 

Rose  the  wind  in  moaning  gusts,  and  drove  aslant  the 
pelting  rain, 


16 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


Bowed  the  trees  before  the  tempest,  writhing  as  in 
mortal  pain. 

Roared  a torrent  in  the  gutters,  gurgled  every  chok- 
ing spout, 

Scarce  was  heard  the  traveler’s  muttering  in  the  up- 
roar and  the  rout. 

And  a little  dripping  damsel,  blown  and  beaten  to  and 
fro,  . 

Through  the  storm  went  running  till  her  eyes  and 
'cheeks  were  all  aglow. 

Peeping  down  to  view'  the  havoc  made  by  mischief- 
working might, 

Straight  he  burst  into  a giant  roar  of  laughter  at  the 
sight. 

li  Ho,  the  sun  is  shining!”  cried  the  traveler,  glanc- 
ing where  there  shone,  . 

Indistinct,  his  own  reflection  in  the  wet  and  glistening 
stone. 

Twinkled  every  dripping  tree-top,  by  the  sudden 
radiance  kissed, 

Glittered  proud  the  ancient  cock  upon  the  steeple  in 
the  mist. 

And  a little  breathless  maiden,  looking  through  a nar- 
row pane, 

Smiled  to  see  an  arch  of  glory  shine  athwart  the  fall- 
ing rain. 


EXAMINATIONS. 

BY  W.  M.  GIFFIN. 

The  other  night  I went  to  bed, 

But  not  to  sleep,  for  my  poor  head 
Was  filled  with  a most  awful  dread, 

Examinations. 

I thought  of  this,  and  then  of  that; 

x9 


Of  set  and  sit ; which  goes  with  sat  ? 

I fear  my  brain  has  run  to  fat. 

Examinations! 

Next  came  the  base  and  rate  per  cent., 

Of  money  to  an  agent  sent, 

And  with  that  word  all  of  them  went, 

Examinations ! 

Then  my  lessons  I try  to  spell ; 

Which  words  have  two,  and  which  one  L? 
Oh,  my  poor  brain ! I cannot  tell. 

Examinations ! 

Where  is  Cape  Cod,  and  where  Pekin  ? 
Where  do  the  rivers  all  begin  ? 

A high  per  cent.  I cannot  win. 

Examinations ! 

Who  was  John  Smith?  What  did  he  do? 
And  all  the  other  fellows,  too  ? 

You  must  tell  me,  I can’t  tell  you. 

Examinations ! 

Oh,  welcome  sleep  ! at  last  it  came  ; 

But  not  to  rest  me,  all  the  same  ; 

For  in  my  dreams  this  is  my  bane — 

Examinations ! 

ANOTHER  SPIDER  AND  FLY. 

LAURA  GARLAND  CARR. 

Come  try  my  new  swing  ! ” said  a cunning  old 
spider, 

As  she  fastened  a thread  round  a columbine  stalk, 


To  a trim  little  fly  that  lit  down  beside  her 

To  brush  off  the  dust  while  they  had  a short  talk. 

« See  this  now  ! I touched  with  my  foot  that  tall 
aster ! . 

Now  back— there  I jostled  that  lovely  sweet  pea ! 

O such  jolly  iun ! see  I go  fast  and  faster  ! 

Hop  in,  little  neighbor,  there’s  room  here  by  me  ! 

“ It  can’t  be  so  nice  as  to  fly,”  he  made  answer, 
While  thoughtfully  stroking  his  fair  gauzy  wings. 

« poh ! flies!  I’ve  had  them!  They  are  nice,  but 
my  land,  sir ! 

You  can’t  till  you  try,  know  the  pleasure  of 
swings.” 

The  spider  and  swing— they  wentfaster  and  higher  ; 
The  blossoms  they  nodded  and  all  things  looked 
gay, 

And  our  charmed  little  fly  soon  lost  all  desire 
Save  just  once  to  swing  in  that  rollicking  way. 

‘ He’ll  come  now,  I know,”  said  the  cunning  old 
spinner, 

And  her  cruel  eyes  gleamed  as  she  danced  out 

Then  looking  back  slily  she  thought  of  the  dinner 
That  plump  fly  would  make  when  she  had  him 
all  tight. 

« She’s  gone ! ” thought  the  fly.  “ Now  I guess  I 
will  try  it.”  . 

And  all  in  a flutter  he  hurried  right  in.  >t 

“ Nice,  isn’t  it,  dear?  Now  don  t you  deny  it ! 
And  the  spider  sprang  out  with  a horrible  grin. 

Whew ! swoop  comes  a swallow  ! he  seizes  the 
derider, 


21 


And  off  to  his  nest  in  the  barn  roof  has  flown; 
So  now  little  silver  wings  laughs  at  the  spider, 
And  swings  if  he  pleases,  or  lets  it  alone. 


THE  LITTLE  TIN  CUP. 

THOMAS  FROST. 

Whoa,  Betty!  How  do,  sir?  Is  this  here  the  ’svlum 
for  folks  as  is  mad? 

It  air?  Wal,  my  Lucy’s  to  hum,  sir;  not  ravin’;  oh 
no  — just  a fad  — 

And  ef  I’d  my  own  way  I wouldn’t  be  thinkin’  o’ 
fetchin’  her  here; 

But  it  ain’t  no  use  argyin’  matters  when  sister-in  laws 
interfere. 

You  see  it  were  this  how:  last  harvest  we  parted  with 
baby — little  Chick; 

The  pootiest  child  in  the  kentry;  the  rompinest,  ’fore 
he  got  sick; 

And  his  mother,  poor  gal,  took  it  badly  when  we 
telled  her  as  baby  was  dead; 

For  she  didn’t  shed  tears  like  she’d  orter,  but  sot  thar 
a-shakin’  her  head. 

And  when  baby  was  put  in  the  parlor,  she  crep’  sof’ly 
up  to  the  box, 

And  we  heerd  her  say,  “ Go  to  sleep,  darlin’,”  as  she 
brushed  back  his  bootiful  locks. 

But  nex’  day  she  was  sleepin’  herself,  sir,  when  they 
come  from  the  taown  with  the  hearse, 

So  we  went  to  the  graveyard  without  her,  and  saved 
her  the  ’sterics,  or  worse. 


22 


Wal,  when  we  got  back  from  the  fun’ral,  thar  was 
Lucy  a-gettin’  the  tea; 

On  the  table  was  three  cups  and  saucers,  for  her  and 
the  sister  and  me; 

But  I can’t  tell  the  turn  as  it  give  me  to  see  on  cloth, 
polished  up, 

Just  as  bright  as  it  shined  on  his  birthday,  our  poor 
Chickey’s  little  tin  cup! 


Then  the  sister  she  starts  in  a cryin’,  and  says  she 
with  her  face  very  white, 

“Lucy,  dear,  don’t  you  know  that  the  baby  won’t 
want  any  supper  to-night?” 

Then,  poor  gal,  she  jist  lifts  up  her  finger  and  she 
points  it  at  baby’s  old  place, 

And  she  says,  “ Don’t  the  tin  cup  look  dirty  along  o’ 
that  dazzlin’  face  ? ” 

Ev’ry  morning  she’s  up  with  the  daybreak,  a-scrubbin’ 
that  poor  bit  o’tin; 

And  she’s  still  at  it,  scourin’  and  rubbin’  when  the 
shadders  of  evenin’  comes  in ; 

But  it’s  black,  sir,  as  black  as  the  kittle  — compared 
with  the  child  as  sits  there, 

Shinin’  bright  with  the  glory  o’Heaven;  still  as  death 
in  his  little  high  chair ! 

So  I’ve  come,  sir,  to  ask  you  to  take  her  and  larn  her 
that  Chick’s  gone  away 

To  a place  whar  no  suff’rin’  kin  enter,  no  rust,  nor 
disease,  nor  decay; 

But  ef  God  sent  this  stroke  as  a mercy  — ef  the  doc- 
tors all  gives  Lucy  up  — 

She  will  bring  back  a heart  that  ain’t  broken,  and 
polish  the  little  tin  cup. 


FEBRUARY— THE  FISHES. 

BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

The  waters  curved  into  a pool, 

The  murmuring  reeds  above  it  bent; 

Beneath  the  willow  branches  cool, 

A Fisher  stood,  with  eyes' intent. 

Sing  hey,  the  Brook,  the  babbling  Brook ! 

The  Fishes  feel  the  treacherous  hook ; 

The  whispering  rushes  lean  and  look ; 

Sing  hey,  the  bonny  Brook! 

His  glistening,  speckled  spoil  he  cast 
Into  a basket,  one  by  one, 

And  down  the  reedy  shore  he  passed, 

And  left  them  lying  in  the  sun. 

Sing  hey,  the  Brook,  the  murmuring  Brook, 

Their  little  lives  are  almost  done; 

The  sighing  rushes  lean  and  look ; 

Sing  hey,  the  bonny  Brook! 

The  Fisher’s  child,  a tiny  lass, 

With,  eyes  as  blue  as  is  the  sea, 

Came  creeping  through  the  meadow  grass, 
And  gazed  upon  them  wondering^. 

Her  tender  bosom  heaved  with  sighs, 

She  gazed  at  them  with  pitying  eyes 

As  misty  as  the  morning  skies; 

Sing  hej-,  the  bonny  Brook ! 

With  dainty  fingers,  one  by  one, 

She  dropped  them  just  within  the  brim, 

And  watched  the  bubbles  in  the  sun 
Come  dancing  to  the  reedy  rim. 

Sing  hey,  the  Brook,  the  laughing  Brook ! 

Through  waters  cool  they  circling  swim ; 

The  whispering  rushes  lean  and  look; 

Sing  hey,  the  bonny  Brook ! 

24 


THE  OLD. 


ANON. 

Give  me  the  old  songs — those  exquisite  bursts  of 
melody  which  thrilled  the  lyres  of  the  inspired 
poets  and  minstrels  of  long  ago.  Every  note  has 
borne  on  the  air  a tale  of  joy  and  rapture — of  sor- 
row and  sadness!  They  tell  of  days  gone  by,  and 
time  hath  given  to  them  a voice  which  speaks  to 
us  of  those  who  once  breathed  these  melodies — of 
what  they  now  are,  and  what  we  soon  shall  be. 
My  heart  loves  those  melodies ; may  they  be  mine 
to  hear  till  life  shall  end,  and,  as  I “ launch  my 
boat  ” upon  the  sea  of  eternity,  may  their  echoes 
be  wafted  to  my  ear,  to  cheer  me  on  my  passage 
from  the  scenes  of  earth  and  earth-land  ! 

Give  me  the  old  paths,  where  we  have  wandered 
and  culled  the  flowers  of  love  and  friendship,  in 
the  days  of  “ Auld  Lang  Syne sweeter , far,  the 
dells  whose  echoes  have  answered  to  our  voices, 
whose  turf  is  not  a stranger  to  our  footsteps,  and 
whose  rills  have  in  childhood’s  days  reflected  back 
our  forms,  and  those  of  our  merry  playfellows, 
from  whom  we  have  been  parted,  and  meet  no  more 
in  the  old  nooks  we  loved  so  well.  May  the  old 
paths  be  watered  with  heaven’s  own  dew,  and  be 
green  forever  in  my  memory  ! 

Give  me  the  old  house  upon  whose  stairs  we 


seem  to  hear  light  footsteps,  and  under  whose 
porch  a merry  laugh  seems  to  mingle  with  the 
winds  that  whistle  through  old  trees,  beneath  whose 
branches  lie  the  graves  of  those  who  once  trod  the 
halls  and  made  the  chambers  ring  with  glee. 

And  oh ! above  all,  give  me  the  old  friends — 
hearts  bound  to  mine  in  life’s  sunshiny  hours  with 
a link  so  strong  that  all  the  storms  of  earth  might 
not  break  it  asunder — spirits  congenial,  whose 
hearts  through  life  have  throbbed  in  unison  with 
our  own ! Oh,  when  death  shall  still  this  heart,  I 
would  not  ask  for  aught  more  sacred  to  hallow  my 
dust  than  the  tear  of  an  old  friend.  May  my  fu- 
neral dirge  be  chanted  by  the  old  friends  I love  so 
fondly,  who  have  not  yet  passed  away  to  the  spirit’s 
bright  home. 

THE  COUNT’S  DAUGHTER. 

A TALE  OF  NUREMBURG. 

O’er  the  gray  old  German  city 
The  shadow  of  mourning  lay : 

More  tenderly  kissed  each  mother 
Her  little  child  that  day. 

With  a deeper  prayer  each  father 

Laid  his  hand  on  his  first-born’s  head, 

For  in  the  castle  above  them 

Lay  the  Count’s  little  daughter,  dead. 

Slow  moved  the  great  procession 
Down  from  the  castle  gate, 

To  where  the  black-draped  cathedral 
Blazed  in  funereal  state. 

And  they  laid  the  little  child  down, 

In  her  robes  of  satin  and  gold, 

28 


ilii'WP 


To  sleep  with  her  dead  forefathers 
In  their  stone  crypt,  dark  and  cold. 

At  midnight  the  Countess  lay  weeping 
’Neath  her  gorgeous  canopy, 

She  heard  as  it  were  a rustling, 

And  little  feet  come  nigh. 

She  started  up  in  the  darkness, 

And  with  yearning  gesture  wild, 

She  cried,  “ Has  the  Father  heard  me? 

Art  thou  come  back,  my  child  ?” 

Then  a child’s  voice,  soft  and  pleading, 
Said,  “ I’ve  come,  O mother  dear, 

To  ask  if  you  will  not  lay  me 

Where  the  little  birds  I can  hear ; 

“The  little  birds  in  their  singing, 

And  the  children  in  their  play, 

Where  the  sun  shines  bright  on  the  flowers 
All  the  long  summer  day. 

“ In  the  stone  crypt  I lie  weeping, 

For  I cannot  choose  but  fear, 

Such  wailings  dire  and  ceaseless 

From  the  dead  Counts’  coftins  I hear 

“ And  I’m  all  alone,  dear  mother, 

No  other  child  is  there  ; 

Oh,  lay  me  to  sleep  in  the  sunshine, 

Where  all  is  bright  and  fair. 

“ I cannot  stay,  dear  mother, 

I must  back  to  the  moans  and  gloom  ; 

I must  lie  there,  fearing  and  weeping, 

Till  you  take  me  from  my  tomb.” 

29 


Then  the  Countess  roused  her  husband, 
Saying,  “Give  to  me,  I pray, 

That  spot  of  green  by  the  deep  fosse, 

Where  the  children  love  to  play. 

“ For  our  little  one  lies  weeping, 

And  asks,  for  Christ’s  dear  sake, 

That  ’mid  song  and  sunlight  and  flowers, 
Near  children  her  grave  we  make.” 

And  the  green  spot  was  made  a garden, 
Blessed  by  priests  with  book  and  prayer, 
And  they  laid  the  Count’s  little  daughter 
’Mid  flowers  and  sunlight  there. 

And  to  the  children  forever 
The  Count  and  Countess  gave 
As  a playground,  that  smiling  garden 
By  their  little  daughter’s  grave. 

— Mrs.  R.  S.  Greenough. 
HIS  OLD  YELLOW  ALMANAC. 

ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

I left  the  farm  when  mother  died,  and  changed  my 
place  of  dwellin’ 

To  daughter  Susie’s  stylish  house,  right  in  the  city 
street. 

And  there  was  them,  before  I came,  that  sort  of  scared 
me,  tellin’ 

How  I would  find  the  town  foiks’  ways  so  difficult 
to  meet. 

They  said  I’d  have  no  comfort  in  the  rustlin’,  fixed-up 
throng, 

And  I’d  have  to  wear  stiff  collars  every  week-day 
right  along. 

I find  I take  to  city  ways  just  like  a duck  to  water, 

I like  the  racket  and  the  noise,  and  never  tire  of 
shows ; 


3° 


And  there’s  no  end  of  comfort  in  the  mansion  of  my 
daughter, 

And  every  thing  is  right  at  hand,  and  money  freely 
flows, 

And  hired  help  is  all  about,  just  listenin’  for  my  call, 

But  I miss  the  yellow  almanac  off  my  old  kitchen 
wall. 

The  house  is  full  of  calendars,  from  attic  to  the  cellar, 

They’re  painted  in  all  colors,  and  are  fancy-like  to 
see; 

But  just  in  this  particular  I’m  not  a modern  feller, 

And  the  yellow-covered  almanac  is  good  enough 
for  me. 

I’m  used  to  it,  I’ve  seen  it  round  from  boyhood  to  old  age, 

And  I rather  like  the  jokin’  at  the  bottom  of  each  page. 

I like  the  way  the  “ S ” stood  out  to  show  the  week’s 
beginnin’ 

(In  these  new-fangled  calendars  the  days  seemed 
sort  of  mixed), 

And  the  man  upon  the  cover,  though  he  wa’n’t  ex- 
actly winnin’, 

With  lungs  and  liver  all  exposed,  still  showed  how 
we  are  fixed; 

And  the  letters  and  credentials  that  were  writ  to  Mr. 


Ayer 

I’ve  often,  on  a rainy  day,  found  readin’  very  fair. 

I tried  to  find  one  recently;  there  wa’n’t  one  in  the 
city, 

They  toted  out  great  calendars  in  every  sort  of 
style ; 

I looked  at  ’em  in  cold  disdain,  and  answered  ’em  in 
pity; 

“ I’d  rather  have  my  almanac  than  all  that  costly 


pile.” 

And,  though  I take  to  city  life,  I’m  lonesome  after  all, 
For  that  old  yellow  almanac  upon  my  kitchen  wall. 


MARCH — THE  RAM. 


BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 


His  golden  horns  and  fleece  of  gold 
Shone  dazzling  in  the  sunset  light. 

W ith  Helle  and  her  brother  bold 
He  skimmed  the  air  in  dizzy  flight.’” 

The  raindrops  down  the  window  slide, 

The  hoarse  wind  moans  in  muffled  rage ; 

Within,  two  fair  heads,  side  by  side, 

Bend  low  above  the  enchanted  page. 

All  heedless  of  the  storm,  they  strav 
In  sunny  fields  of  ancient  Greece, 

And  with  the  fabled  children  play, 

And  see  the  Ram  with  golden  fleece. 

“ Hark,  Amy  ? ” “ ’ Swift  they  flew  and  far, 
Till  “Farewell,  Phrixos!”  Helle  cried; 


Ai  ’ r - 


“ I would  have  held  you,  Amy  dear ! ” 


“ Oh,  how  could  Phrixos  lose  her  so? 
Please  read  the  rest.  I want  to  hear 

What  happened  to  the  Ram,  you  know.” 
And  all  unheeded  moans  the  gale, 

While  still  they  walk  in  Fairyland, 

And  ponder  o’er  the  ancient  tale 
They  can  but  dimly  understand. 

“ ‘ So  lived  the  Ram  and  so  he  died 
Within  the  palace-walls  at  peace ; 

And  people  flocked  from  far  and  wide 
To  seek  and  win  the  Golden  Fleece.’  ” 

A charmed  silence  fills  the  room, 

The  firelight  flickers  on  the  floor, 


The  rain  sounds  softly  through  the  gloom; 

A footstep  pauses  at  the  door. 

“You  here,  my  dear?”  a clear  voice  says. 

“ I’ve  hunted  for  you  everywhere!” 

Then  Ralph,  in  laughing  earnest,  lays 
His  hand  on  Amy’s  shining  hair. 

“ No  wonder  that  you  looked  in  vain, 

Mamma,  for  we  have  been  to  Greece  — 

We  did  not  mind  about  the  rain  — 

And  I have  found  the  Golden  Fleece.” 

ASLEEP  AT  THE  SWITCH. 

CHARLES  HOEY. 

( Abridged .) 

The  first  thing  I remember,  was  Carlo  tugging 
away  . .. 

With  the  sleeve  of  my  coat  fast  in  his  teeth,  pull- 
ing as  much  as  to  say, 

“ Come,  master,  awake,  attend  to  the  switch,  lives 
now  depend  upon  you, 

Think  of  the  souls  in  the  coming  train,  and  the 
graves  you  are  sending  them  to  ; 

Think  of  the  mother  and  the  babe  at  her  breast, 
think  of  the  father  and  son; 

Think  of  the  lover  and  loved  one  too,  think  of  them 
doomed  every  one, 

To  fall,  as  it  were  by  your  hand,  into  yon  fathom- 
less ditch, 

Murdered  by  one  who  should  guard  them  irom 
harm,  who  now  lies  asleep  at  the  switch. 

I sprang  up  amazed,  scarce  knew  where  I stood, 
sleep  had  o’ermastered  me  so  ; 

35 


I could  hear  the  wind  hollowly  howling,  and  the 
deep  river  dashing  below  ; 

I could  hear  the  forest  leaves  rustling,  as  the  trees 
by  the  tempest  were  fanned  ; 

But  what  was  that  noise  in  the  distance  ? That,  I 
could  not  understand. 

1 heard  it  at  first  indistinctly,  like  the  rolling  of 
some  muffled  drum, 

Then  nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  till  it  made  my 
very  ears  hum  ; 

What  is  this  light  that  surrounds  me,  and  seems 
to  set  fire  to  my  brain  ? 

What  whistle’s  that,  yelling  so  shrilly?  Ah!  I 
know  now ! it’s  the  train  ! 

We  often  stand  facing  some  danger,  and  seem  to 
take  root  to  the  place  ; 

So  I stood  with  this  demon  before  me,  its  heated 
breath  scorching  my  face  ; 

Its  headlight  made  day  of  the  darkness,  and  glared 
like  the  eyes  of  some  witch ; 

The  train  was  almost  upon  me  before  I remem* 
bered  the  switch. 

I sprang  to  it,  seizing  it  wildly,  the  train  dashing 
fast  down  the  track, 

The  switch  resisted  my  efforts,  some  demon  seemed 
holding  it  back ; 

On,  on  came  the  fiery-eyed  monster,  and  shot  by 
my  face  like  a flash  ; 

I swooned  to  the  earth  the  next  moment,  and  knew 
nothing  after  the  crash. 

How  long  I lay  unconscious  ’t  was  impossible  to 
tell,  [a  hell ; 

My  stupor  was  almost  a heaven,  my  waking  almost 

For  1 then  heard  the  piteous  moaning  and  shriek- 
ing of  husbands  and  wives, 

36 


And  of  the  day  we  all  shrink  from,  when  1 must 
account  for  their  lives. 

Mothers  rushed  by  me  like  maniacs,  their  eyes  glar. 
ing  madly  and  wild  ; 

Fathers,  losing  their  courage,  gave  way  to  their 
grief  like  a child  ; 

Children  searching  for  parents,  I noticed,  as  by  me 
they  sped ; , , , ,, 

And  lips  that  could  form  naught  but  ‘ Mamma, 
were  calling  for  one  perhaps  dead. 

My  mind  was  made  up  in  a moment,  the  river 
should  hide  me  away  ; 

When,  under  the  still  burning  rafters,  I suddenly 
noticed  there  lay  , 4_ 

A little  white  hand  ; she  who  owned  it  was  doubt- 
less an  object  of  love 

To  one  whom  her  loss  would  drive-frantic,  though 
she  guarded  him  now  from  above. 

I tenderly  lifted  the  rafters  and  quietly  laid  them 
one  side ; 

How  little  she  thought  of  her  journey  when  she 
left  for  this  dark,  fated  ride  ; 

I lifted  the  last  log  from  off  her,  and  while  search- 
ing for  some  spark  of  life, 

Turned  her  little  face  up  in  the  starlight,  and  rec- 
ognized—Maggie,  my  wife. 

O Lord ! thy  scourge  is  a hard  one,  at  a blow  thou 
hast  shattered  my  pride  ! . 

My  life  will  be  one  endless  nightmare,  with  Mag- 
gie away  from  my  side  ! 

How  often  I’d  sat  down  and  pictured  that  some 

day  I,  p’raps,  might  be  rich— 

But  all  of  my  dreams  had  been  shattered,  while  I 
lay  there  asleep  at  the  switch. 

37 


I fancied  I stood  on  my  trial,  the  jury  and  judge  I 
could  see, 

And  every  eye  in  the  court  room  was  steadily 
fixed  upon  me  ; 

And  fingers  were  pointed  in  scorn,  till  I felt  my 
face  blushing  blood-red, 

And  the  next  thing  I heard  were  the  words, 
“ Hanged  by  the  neck  until  dead.” 

Then  I felt  myself  pulled  once  again,  and  my  hand 
caught  right  hold  of  a dress, 

And  I heard,  “What’s  the  matter,  dear  Jim? 
You’ve  had  a bad  nightmare,  I guess!” 

And  there  stood  Maggie,  my  wife,  with  never  a 
scar  from  the  ditch, 

I’d  been  taking  a nap  in  my  bed,  and  had  not  been 
“ asleep  at  the  switch.” 

WHEN  SANTA  CLAUS  COMES. 

A good  time  is  coming,  I wish  it  were  here; 

The  very  best  time  in  the  whole  of  the  year. 

I’m  counting  each  day  on  my  fingers  and  thumbs 

The  hours  that  must  pass  before  Santa  Claus  comes. 

Good-bye  for  a while,  then,  to  lessons  and  school ; 

We  can  talk,  laugh,  and  sing,  without  breaking  the 
rule. 

No  troublesome  spellers,  no  writing,  nor  sums, 

There’s  nothing  but  playtime,  when  Santa  Claus 
comes. 

I suppose  I shall  have  a new  dolly,  of  course, 

My  last  one  was  killed  by  a fall  from  her  horse  ; 

While  for  Harry  and  Jack,  there’ll  be  trumpets  and 
drums, 

To  deafen  us  with  when  Santa  Claus  comes- 

38 


I'll  hang  up  my  stocking  to  hold  what  he  brings; 

1 hope  he  will  fill  it.  with  lots  of  good  t hings ; 

He  must  know  how  dearly  I love  sugar  plums, 

I’d  like  a big  box  full,  when  Santa  Claus  comes. 

And  now  that  the  snowflakes  begin  to  come  down 
And  the  wind  whistles  sharp,  and  the  branches  are 
brown, 

I don’t  mind  the  cold,  though  my  fingers  it  numbs, 
’Cause  it  brings  the  time  nearer  when  Santa  Claus 


ffc 


APRIL— THE  BULL. 

BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

“ Huzza!  ” From  box  and  balcony 
Rang  out  the  loud  exultant  cry: 

“Huzza!  the  Matador!” 

From  floor  to  roof  a glittering  maze 
Of  gorgeous  robes  and  faces  fair, 

With  lustrous  laces  gleaming  rare, 

And  veils  of  fluttering  gossamer, 

And  fans  that  set  the  air  astir, 

And  flowers  that  bloom  and  gems  that  blaze 
Filled  all  the  amphitheatre. 

Below  them  in  the  sunlit  space 
Beneath  the  tranquil  April  skies, 

Two  combatants  stood  face  to  face: 

A milk-white  bull,  with  fiery  eyes, 

Huge,  frantic,  mad  with  rage  and  pain, 

His  great  head  bowed  to  charge  the  foe, 
And,  poising  with  a cool  disdain 
His  weapon  for  the  fatal  blow, 

A youth,  decked  out  in  gorgeous  wise. 

A murmurous  hush,  a breathless  pause  — 
The  ladies  leaned  far  out  to  see. 

A flash  of  scarlet  drapery  — 

A plunge  — a bellowing  roar  — a cloud 
Of  flying  dust!  Then  burst  the  applause, 
With  cheer  on  cheer  of  wild  delight 
That  rolled  the  echoing  circle  round. 

And  while,  low  fallen  upon  the  ground, 

His  victim  struggled  hard  with  death, 

The  hero  of  the  noble  fight, 


40 


Rained  on  with  flowers  from  fingers  white 
’Mid  ringing  Bravos,  smiled  and  bowed. 

A child  sobbed  softly  in  the  crowd. 

“ Alas,  poor  bull!”  below  her  breath 
She  wept.  “ Alas,  poor  pretty  bull ! ” 

With  sad  eyes  grieved  and  pitiful, 

And  down  beside  him  in  the  sand, 

One  blossom,  wet  with  tearful  dew, 

One  little  crimson  rose  she  threw, 

And  hid  her  sweet  eyes  with  her  hand. 

And  still  all  tongues  the  victor  sang, 

“ Huzza ! ” the  thundering  plaudits  rang, 
“Huzza!  the  Matador!” 


WHERE  DO  YOU  LIVE? 

I knew  a man,  and  his  name  was  Horner, 
Who  used  to  live  on  Grumble  Corner — 
Grumble  Corner  in  Cross-Patch  town — 

And  he  never  was  seen  without  a frown. 

He  grumbled  at  this,  he  grumbled  at  that ; 

He  growled  at  the  dog,  he  growled  at  the  cat; 
He  grumbled  at  morning,  he  grumbled  at 
night ; . 

And  to  grumble  and  growl  was  his  chief 
delight. 

He  grumbled  so  much  at  his  wife  that  she 
Began  to  grumble  as  well  as  he  ; 

And  all  the  children,  wherever  they  went, 
Reflected  their  parents’  discontent. 


If  the  sky  was  dark  and  betokened  rain, 
Then  Mr.  Horner  was  sure  to  complain ; 

And  if  there  was  not  a cloud  about, 

He’d  grumble  because  of  a threatened 
drought. 

His  meals  were  never  to  suit  his  taste ; 

He  grumbled  at  having  to  eat  in  haste  ; 

The  bread  was  poor,  or  the  meat  was  tough. 
Or  else  he  hadn’t  had  half  enough. 

No  matter  how  hard  his  wife  might  try 
To  please  her  husband,  with  scornful  eye 
He’d  look  around,  and  then,  with  a scowl 
At  something  or  other,  begin  to  growl. 

One  day  as  I loitered  along  the  street, 

My  old  acquaintance  I chanced  to  meet, 
Whose  face  was  without  the  look  of  care, 

And  the  ugly  frown  that  he  used  to  wear. 

“ I may  be  mistaken,  perhaps,”  I said, 

As,  after  saluting,  I turned  my  head, 

“ But  it  is,  and  it  isn’t,  Mr.  Horner, 

Who  lived  so  long  on  Grumble  Corner !” 

I met  him  the  next  day;  and  I met  him  again, 
In  melting  weather,  in  pouring  rain, 

When  stocks  were  up  and  stocks  were  down, 
But  a smile,  somehow,  had  replaced  the 
frown. 

It  puzzled  me  much  ; and  so,  one  day, 

I seized  his  hand  in  a friendly  way, 

And  said:  “ Mr.  Horner,  I’d  like  to  know 
What  can  have  happened  to  change  you  so?” 

He  laughed  a laugh  that  was  good  to  hear, 
For  it  told  of  a conscience  calm  and  clear, 

And  he  said,  with  none  of  the  old  time  drawl: 

44 


« Why,  I’ve  changed  my  residence,  that  is 
all!”  [Horner, 

44  Changed  your  residence?”  44  Yes,”  said 
44  It  wasn’t  healthy  on  Grumble  Corner, 

And  so  I moved  ; ’twas  a change  complete  ; 
And  you’ll  find  me  now  on  Thanksgiving 
Street !” 

Now,  every  day,  as  I move  along 

The  streets  so  filled  with  the  busy  throng, 

I watch  each  face,  and  can  always  tell 
Where  men  and  women  and  children  dwell ; 
And  many  a discontented  mourner 
Is  spending  his  days  on  Grumble  Corner, 
Sour  and  sad,  whom  I long  to  entreat 
To  take  a house  on  Thanksgiving  Street. 

— Independent. 


WHAT  WE  LEARN  AT  SCHOOL. 

(For  five  little  children.) 

(All.)  Fathers,  mothers,  see  us  now, 

As  we  make  a pretty  bow. 

Next  we’ll  tell  you,  each  in  turn, 

What  it  is  we  here  do  learn. 

(ist-)  First  we’re  taught  in  kindly  way, 

We  our  teacher  should  obey  : 

When  we  strive  to  do  the  right 
We  are  happy  morn  and  night. 

(2d.)  And  we  try  to  keep  in  mind, 

We  to  others  should  be  kind  ; 


45 


For  we  know  that  all  through  life 
We  must  shun  dispute  and  strife. 

(3d.)  Then,  to  meet  another  need, 

Ev’ry  one  learns  how  to  read. 

As  you  all  can  see  at  once 
No  one  means  to  be  a dunce. 

(4th  l Now  we  spell,  and  now  we  write,  j 

’Till  we  know  each  word  at  sight; 

Thus  you  see  how  well  we  learn 
Each  new  thing  to  which  we  turn. 

(5th.)  Now  to  add  and  take  away, 

This  we  learn  from  day  to  day ; 

How  to  bound  our  State  we  know ; 

East  or  south,  the  way  we  go. 

(All.)  But  we  have  no  time  to  tell 

All  the  things  we’ve  learned  so  well, 

So  we  ask  you,  one  and  all, 

At  our  school  again  to  call. 


BOYS. 

Sturdy  little  farmer  boys,  tell  me  how  you  know 
When  tis  time  to  plow  the  fields,  and  to  reap 
and  mow. 

Do  the  hens  with  yellow  legs 
Scold  you  when  you  look  for  eggs  ? 

Do  you  drive  the  ducks  to  drink,  waddling  in  a 
row  ? 

Do  the  pigs  in  concert  squeal, 

When  you  bring  their  evening  meal? 

Tell  me,  little  farmer  boy,  for  I’d  like  to  know. 

46 


Nimble  little  sailor  boy,  tell  me  how  you  know 
How  to  navigate  your  ship  when  the  tempests 
blow. 

Do  you  find  it  pretty  hard 
Clinging  to  the  top-sail  yard  ? 

Don’t  you  Tear  some  stormy  day  overboard  you’ll 
go? 

Do  they  let  you  take  a light 
When  you  go  aloft  at  night  ? 

Tell  me  little  sailor  boy,  for  I’d  like  to  know. 

Little  boys,  of  every  kind,  tell  me  how  you  know 
That  ’tis  time  ere  school  begins,  rather  ill  to  grow, 
Does  the  pain  increase  so  fast 
It  is  terrible  at  last  ? 

Don't  you  quickly  convalesce,  when  too  late  to 
go? 

Do  you  think  I am  a dunce? 

Wasn’t  I a school  boy  once? 

Tell  me  all  you  little  boys,  for  I’d  like  to  know. 


MAY  — THE  TWINS. 

BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

All  the  world  was  white  with  blossom,, 
Sweet  the  fields  with  breath  of  May, 
Silver-throated  larks  were  singing, 
Silver-clear  the  bells  were  ringing 
In  the  village  far  away; 

“ Tell  us  whom  you  love !”  they  cried. 
Pressing  eager  to  my  side. 

“ Whom  you  love  the  best  of  any!” 
Eyes  alight  with  boyish  glee, 

Ankle  deep  in  daisies  standing, 

Thus  my  secret  heart  demanding, 

Came  my  bonny  lads  to  me, 

Weary  growing  of  their  play, 

At  the  closing  of  the  day. 

“ What  his  name  is,”  grave  I answered, 
“ ’Twere  not  fair  for  me  to  tell. 

But,  though  I must  not  confess  it, 

You,  perhaps,  may  chance  to  guess  it, 
For  you  know  my  dear  Love  well; 

He  is  straight  and  tall  and  slim, 

Stout  of  heart  and  lithe  of  limb. 

“ Brown  his  hair  is — rumpled,  curly, 
Blue  his  eyes — dear  honest  eyes ! 
Sunburned  face  with  dimple  merry, 
Fond  of  fun  and  frolic,  very! 

Fearless,  frank — not  overwise, 

And  his  age — just  ten  to-day!” 

Pealed  their  merry  ringing  laughter; 
“Ah,”  they  cried,  “but  we  are  two!” 
Looked  askance  at  one  another, 

48 


Recognizing  each  his  brother, 

In  the  picture  that  I drew : — 

“ You  have  only  half  confessed; 

Can  yon  love  us  both  the  best?” 

“Nay,”  I said,  “ my  blue-eyed  tyrants, 
I have  answered.  Be  content!” 

And  with  happy  jest  and  laughter, 
Long  our  shadows  following  after, 
Homeward  through  the  dew  we  went, 
And  the  bells  rang  far  away, 

For  the  closing  of  the  day. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  FIRE. 

BY  EDGAR  ALLEN  POE. 

In  the  deepest  death  of  midnight, 

While  the  sad  and  solemn  swell 
Still  was  floating,  faintly  echoed 
From  the  forest’s  chapel  bell; 

Faintly,  faltering,  floating, 

O’er  the  sable  waves  of  air 
That  were  through  the  midnight  rolling, 
Chafed  and  billowy  with  the  tolling. 

In  my  chamber,  I lay  dreaming, 

And  my  dreams  were  dreams  foreshadowed 
Of  a heart  foredoomed  to  care. 

As  the  last  long  lingering  echo 
Of  the  midnight’s  mystic  chime, 

Lisping  through  the  sable  billow 
Of  the  thither  shore  of  time, 

Leaving  on  the  starless  silence 
Not  a shadow  or  a trace, 


In  a quivering  sign  departed 
From  my  couch,  in  fear,  I started  — 
Started  to  my  feet  in  terror 
For  my  dream’s  phantasmal  error 
Painted  in  the  fitful  fire 

A frightful,  fiendish,  flaming  face. 

On  the  red  hearth’s  reddest  center, 
From  a blazing  knot  of  oak, 

Seemed  to  grin  and  gibe  the  phantom. 
As  in  terror,  I awoke. 

And  my  slumbering  eyelids  straining 
As  I struggled  to  the  floor — 

Still  in  that  dread  vision  seeming, 
Turned  my  gaze  toward  the  gleaming 
Hearth,  and  then,  oh,  God ! I saw  it, 
And  from  its  flaming  jaws  it 
Spat  a ceaseless,  seething,  hissing, 
Bubbling,  gurgling  stream  of  gore. 

Speechless,  struck  with  stony  silence. 
Frozen  to  the  floor,  I stood, 

Till  my  very  brain  seemed  hissing 
With  that  hissing,  bubbling  blood; 
Till  I felt  my  life-stream  oozing, 
Oozing  from  those  lambent  lips, 

Till  the  demon  seemed  to  name  me. 
Then  a wondrous  calm  o’ercame  me, 
And  I fell  back  on  my  pillow, 

In  apparent  soul  eclipse. 

Thus,  as  in  death’s  seeming  shadows, 
In  the  icy  pall  of  fear 
I lay  stricken,  came  a hoarse  and 
Hideous  murmur  to  my  ear, 

Came  a murmur,  like  the  murmur 
Of  assassins  in  their  sleep, 


» 


Muttering,  “ I Iigher,  higher,  higher, 

I am  demon  of  the  fire, 
l am  arch  fiend  of  the  tire, 

And  each  blazing  roof’s  my  pyre, 

And  my  sweetest  incense  is 
The  blood  and  tears  my  victims  wt.r 

“ Mow  I revel  on  the  prairie, 

How  I roar  amidst  the  pines, 

How  I laugh  as  from  the  village 
O’er  the  snow  the  red  flame  shines. 
How  I hear  the  shriek  of  terror, 

With  a life  in  every  breath. 

How  I scream  with  lambent  laughter 
As  I hurl  each  crackling  rafter 
Down  the  fell  abyss  of  fire, 

Until  higher,  higher,  higher, 

Leap  the  high  priests  of  my  altar, 

In  their  merry  dance  of  death. 

“ I am  monarch  of  the  fire, 

I am  royal  king  of  death. 

World  encircling  with  the  shadow 
Of  its  doom  upon  my  breath, 

With  the  symbol  of  hereafter 
Gleaming  from  my  fatal  face, 

I command  the  eternal  fire. 

Higher,  higher,  higher,  higher 
Leap  my  ministering  demons, 

Like  phantasmagoric  lemans, 

Hugging  universal  nature 
In  their  hideous  embrace.'5 

Then  a sombre  silence  shut  me 
In  her  solemn  shrouded  sleep, 

And  I slumbered  like  an  infant 
lu  the  cradle  of  the  deep, 


53 


Till  the  belfry  from  the  forest 
Trembled  with  the  matin  stroke; 

And  the  martins  from  the  edge 
Of  their  lichen  hidden  ledge 
Shimmered  through  the  russet  arches, 
While  the  light  in  torn  files,  marches, 
Like  a routed  army  struggling 
Through  the  serried  ranks  of  oak. 

Through  my  open  fretted  casement 
Filtered  in  a tremulous  note, 

From  the  tall  and  shady  linden, 

Where  the  robin  swelled  his  throat, 
Tiny  wooer,  brave  breasted  robin, 
Quaintly  calling  for  his  mate 
From  my  slumber,  nightmare  ridden, 
With  the  memory  of  that  dire 
Demon,  in  my  central  fire, 

In  my  eyes’  interior  mirror 
Like  the  shadows  of  a fate. 

But  the  fiendish  fire  had  smoldered 
To  a white  and  formless  heap, 

And  no  knot  of  oak  was  blazing 
As  it  blazed  upon  my  sleep. 

But  on  the  red  hearth’s  reddest  center, 
Where  that  demon’s  face  had  shown, 
The  shadowy  lightning  seemed  to  linger, 
And  to  point  with  spectral  finger 
To  a Bible,  massive,  golden  — 

On  a table,  carved  and  olden, 

And  I bowed  and  said  “ All  power 
Is  of  God  and  God  alone.” 


GOD  OF  NATIONS. 

REV.  JOSEPH  COOK. 

God  of  the  nations,  rise, 

Fix  on  Thyself  our  eyes, 
Wisdom,  Love,  Might: 

Draw  Thou  as  noontide  nigh, 
Flood  Thou  the  earth  and  sky; 
Keen,  white,  pure,  vast  and  high, 
Let  there  be  light. 

God  of  our  fathers’  day, 

Make  us  as  wise  as  they, 

Thy  truth  our  guide : 

Ours  be  Thy  bugle  call, 

One  plan  Thou  hast  in  all, 

As  the  new  ages  fall, 

In  us  abide. 

God  make  our  eye-sight  clear, 
Duty  as  freedom  dear; 

Right  all  our  wrongs : 

Strong  in  Truth  gladly  heard, 
Loyal  to  all  Thy  word, 

Nations  with  hope  deferred, 

Fill  Thou  with  songs. 

God  in  all  faces  shine, 

So  make  Thou  all  men  Thine, 
Under  one  dome; 

Face  to  face,  soul  to  soul, 

East  to  West,  pole  to  pole, 

As  the  great  ages  roll, 

Be  Thou  our  home. 


55 


JUNE  — THE  CRAB. 

BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

The  waves  ran  laughing  from  the  land, 

And  whispered  to  the  sea. 

A Baby  lay  on  the  silver  sand, 

With  a roseleaf  shell  in  his  roseleaf  hand, 
And  a dainty  thing  was  he. 

From  the  crown  of  his  silken  head,  I ween, 
To  his  bare  white  foot,  there  never  was  seen 
A daintier  thing  than  he. 

O,  soft  he  cooed  in  his  baby  speech, 

And  laughed  in  his  baby  glee, 

And  put  out  a dimpled  hand  to  reach 
For  something  lying  upon  the  beach 
Close  down  beside  the  sea  — 

A curious,  crooked  thing,  I ween. 

With  spreading  claws  and  a body  green  — 

A King  of  Crabs  was  he. 

O sweet  the  Baby  called  and  cooed, 

And  beckoned  tenderly. 

And  still  the  Crab,  in  sleepy  mood, 

Would  not,  by  dainty  arts  be  wooed  — 

A sullen  thing  was  he. 

Then  came  a sound  of  flying  feet  — 

The  baby  smiled  with  wonder  sweet, 

His  mother’s  face  to  see. 

She  caught  him,  frowning,  from  the  sand* 
And  fled  across  the  lea. 

But  still  he  reached  a roseleaf  hand 
To  something  crawling  down  the  strand 
Sidelong  into  the  sea. 

And  all  the  waves  at  play, 

With  whispered  laughter,  ran  away 
And  told  it  to  the  sea. 


WOMEN  WANTED. 

Women  are  wanted.  Ah,  yes!  Women  who 
know  their  own  business  better  than  their  neigh- 
bors’. Women  who  are  true  and  pure.  Women 
who  will  not  weary  in  well-doing,  who'  will 
neither  flag  nor  flinch.  Women  who  know  their 
mission.  Women  who  will  daily  do  loving  ser- 
vices, gentle  little  kindnesses — and  do  them  unosten- 
tatiously. Women  who  will  see  that  bare  pantries 
are  supplied,  and  that  the  shelterless  find  homes. 

Women  are  greatly  wanted.  Women  who  will 
not  drift  with  the  tide,  but  will  courageously  stem 
the  current.  Women  who  live  to  please  God,  not 
themselves.  Women  with  noble,  generous  souls, 
whose  hearts  will  utter  “Godspeed,”  as  workers 
grow  faint  and  hands  grow  weary.  Women  who 
will  not  allow  their  noble  impulses  to  be  crushed 
by  the  customs  of  society.  Women  who  will  be 
the  stepping-stones  to  lift  people  up — not  stumb- 
ling-blocks to  hinder  and  cause  them  to  fall.  Wo- 
men who  listen  to  the  still,  small  voice  and  heed  its 
admonitions.  Women  with  clear  brains  and  ready 
hands  and  willing  hearts,  who  know  their  “ life 
work,”  and  do  it. 

Yes,  women  are  wanted.  Women  who  know 
how  much  power  there  is  in  a gentle,  encouraging 
word,  how  much  force  there  is  in  a hopeful  proph- 
ecy.  Women  who  will  sow  their  loving  acts 
broadcast,  believing  that  kind  words  never  die. 
Women  who  extend  a helping  hand  all  along  life’s 
pathway.  Women  with  clear  understanding,  quick 
perception,  and  good  judgment.  Women  of 
patience.  Women  of  forethought,  of  discrimina- 
tion, and  great  generosity.  Women  who  will  brave 
the  scorn  of  this  world  to  be  crowned  of  God. 


$9 


THE  NEW  SCHOOLHOUSE. 

Things  aint  now  as  they  used  to  be 
A hundred  years  ago, 

When  schools  were  kept  in  private  rooms 
Above  stairs  or  below  ; 

When  sturdy  boys  and  rosy  girls 
Romped  through  the  drifted  snow, 

And  spelled  their  duty  and  their  " abs,” 

A hundred  years  ago. 

Those  old  schoolrooms  were  dark  and  cold 
When  winter’s  sun  ran  low  ; 

But  darker  was  the  master’s  frown 
A hundred  years  ago  ; 

And  high  hung  up  the  birchen  rod, 

That  all  the  school  might  see, 

Which  taught  the  boys  obedience, 

As  well  as  Rule  of  Three. 

Though  ’twas  but  little  that  they  learned, 

A hundred  years  ago, 

Yet  what  they  got  they  ne’er  let  slip, — 
’Twas  well  whipped  in,  you  know. 

But  now  the  times  are  greatly  changed, 

The  rod  has  had  its  day, 

The  boys  are  won  by  gentle  words, 

The  girls  by  love  obey. 

The  schoolhouse  now  a palace  is, 

And  scholars  kings  and  queens  ; 

60 


They  master  algebra  and  Greek 
Before  they  reach  their  teens. 

Where  once  was  crying,  music  sweet 
Her  soothing  influence  sheds; 

Ferrules  are  used  for  beating  time, 

And  not  for  beating  heads. 

Yes,  learning  was  a ragged  boy, 

A hundred  years  ago  ; 

With  six  weeks’  schooling  in  a year, 

What  could  an  urchin  know? 

But  now  he  is  a full-grown  man, 

And  boasts  attainments  rare, 

He’s  got  his  silver  slippers  on, 

And  running  everywhere. 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  RUM  BRIGADE. 

MARY  S.  WHEELER. 

All  in  league,  all  in  league, 

All  in  league  onward, 

All  in  the  Valley  of  Death, 

Walked  the  Six  Hundred. 

“ Forward  the  Rum  Brigade ! 

Cheers  for  the  Whisky  Raid  ! ” 

Into  the  Valley  of  Death 
^Talked  the  Six  Hundred. 

“ Forward  the  Rum  Brigade  ! ” 

Were  all  their  friends  dismayed? 

Yes;  and  the  soldiers  knew 
Each  one  had  blundered. 

Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 

Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 

Theirs  but  to  drink  and  die . 

61 


Into  the  Valley  of  Death 
Walked  the  Six  Hundred. 

Drunkards  to  right  of  them, 
Drunkards  to  left  of  them. 
Drunkards  in  front  of  them, 

One  million  numbered. 

Oaths  fell  like  shot  and  shell, 

Rum  did  its  work  so  well. 

Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Walked  the  Six  Hundred. 

Garments  torn — cupboards  bare 

Children  with  naught  to  wear; 
Sleeping  in  gutters  their 
Fathers  are  lying,  while 
All  the  world  wondered. 
Plunged  into  want  and  woe, 
Onward  they  madly  go. 

Weeping  in  anguish, 

Wives  sit,  for  well  they  know, 
Shattered  and  sundered, 

None  will  come  back  who  go 
Of  the  Six  Hundred. 

Curses  to  right  of  them, 

Curses  to  left  of  them, 

Curses  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  by  those  who  sell, 

They,  who  had  paid  so  well, 

Well  had  been  plundered. 
Clenched  teeth  and  livid  brow, 
Delirium  tremens  now, 

Thus  young  and  old  men  fell 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

62 


Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

Not  one  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  the  Six  Hundred. 

How  did  their  glory  fade  ! 

O,  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 

Weep  for  the  charge  they  made! 
Weep  for  the  Rum  Brigade  ! 
Fallen  Six  Hundred. 


JULY- THE  LION. 

BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

O,  many,  many  years  ago  — 

Or  ever  fell  the  winter’s  snow  — 

(Thus  have  the  poets  sung) 

When  summer  ruled  the  happy  year. 

And  no  man  knew  the  name  of  Fear, 

When  nights  were  fair  and  days  were  long,. 
And  Hope  was  new,  and  Love  was  strong, 
When  this  old  world  was  young  — 

There  roamed  through  field  and  forest  wild 
A Lion  and  a little  child. 

O many  years  ago ! 

Wherever  shown  the  boy’s  bright  head, 
Wherever  danced  his  airy  tread, 

There  huge  and  stately,  gaunt  and  grim, 

His  mighty  playmate  followed  him 
From  dawn  to  sunset  glow. 

When  weary  grew  the  little  feet, 

The  Lion’s  back  became  his  seat, 

And  high  he  rode  in  glee ; 

He  slept  his  rosy  sleep  beside 
The  gentle  monster’s  shaggy  hide, 

Or,  waking,  with  his  great  ears  played, 

And  on  their  tawny  velvet  laid 
His  warm  cheek  lovingly. 

So  rolled  the  happy  moons  away, 

Until  the  child  grew  tired  one  day 
Ere  yet  the  sun  was  low, 

And,  sinking  down  upon  the  ground, 

He  slept,  his  dimpled  hands  yet  wound 
Within  the  Lion’s  tangled  mane, 

Slept  sound,  nor  ever  woke  again  — 

O many  years  ago ! 

64 


i 


Then  broke  a brave  and  gentle  heart. 

Vain  all  the  Lion’s  loving  art, 

His  dumb  and  wondering  woe; 

One  cry  he  gave  of  mortal  pain 
Till  all  the  forest  roared  again 
And  at  his  playmate’s  side 
Stretched  out  his  mighty  limbs  and  died  — 
O many  years  ago! 

Ah  me ! So  tender  were  the  Strong, 

When  nights  were  fair  and  days  were  long! 

(So  have  the  poets  sung). 

So  mighty  Innocence  to  woo 
The  fiercest  nature  and  subdue 
So  brave  was  Truth,  so  simple  Faith, 

So  strong  the  Love  that  feared  not  Death, 
When  this  old  world  was  young. 


ONLY  A SONG, 

It  was  only  a simple  ballad 
Sung  to  a careless  throng; 

There  were  none  who  knew  the  singer. 
And  few  that  heard  the  song. 

Yet  the  singer’s  voice  was  tender 
And  sweet,  as  with  love  untold. 
Surely  those  hearts  were  hardened 
That  it  left,  so  proud  and  cold. 

But  one,  in  a distant  corner, 

A woman  worn  with  strife, 

Heard  in  that  song  a message 
From  the  springtime  of  her  life 
Fair  forms  rose  up  before  her, 

From  the  midst  of  vanished  years 
She  sat  in  happy  blindness, 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

Then  when  the  song  was  ended, 

And  hushed  the  last  sweet  tone. 

That  listener  rose  up  slowly, 

And  went  her  way  alone. 

68 


Once  more  to  her  life  of  labor 

She  passed  ; but  her  heart  was  strong, 
And  she  prayed:  “ Heaven  bless  the  singer, 
And  oh,  thank  God  for  the  song.” 

HOLD  ON,  BOYS. 

Hold  on  to  your  tongue,  when  about  to  swear, 
lie,  speak  harshly,  or  use  an  improper  word.  Hold 
on  to  your  hand,  when  it  is  about  to  pinch,  or 
strike  some  one,  and  take  what  is  not  your  own. 

Hold  on  to  your  feet  if  they  want  to  kick  a liv- 
ing thing,  or  run  away  from  study  or  work,  into 
mischief  or  crime.  Hold  on  to  your  temper  when 
you  are  angry,  excited,  or  imposed  upon,  or  when 
all  are  angry  with  you.  Hold  on  to  your  temper 
— you  will  feel  sorry  to  lose  it.  Hold  on  to  your 
heart  when  evil  associates  seek  your  company, 
and  invite  you  to  join  in  their  games  and  revelry. 
Hold  on  to’  your  good  name  at  all  times  ; for  it  is 
of  more  value  than  gold,  high  position,  or  fine 
clothes.  Hold  on  to  truth,  for  it  will  serve  you 
well,  and  do  through  all  time. 

Hold  on  to  virtue ; it  is  above  all  price  to  you, 
under  all  circumstances.  Hold  on  to  your  good 
character,  for  that  is,  and  ever  will  be,  your  best 
wealth. 

STAY  ON  THE  FARM. 

Come  boys,  I have  something  to  tell  you, 
Come  near,  I would  whisper  it  low  ; 

You  are  thinking  of  leaving  the  homestead, 
Don’t  be  in  a hurry  to  go. 

The  city  has  many  attractions, 

But  think  of  the  vices  and  sins  ; 

When  once  in  the  vortex  of  fashion, 

How  soon  the  course  downward  begins. 

69 


You  talk  of  the  mines  of  Australia, 

They’ve  wealth  in  red  gold,  no  doubt, 

But  ah,  there  is  gold  on  thefarra,  boys, 

If  only  you’ll  shovel  rt  out. 

The  mercantile  life  is  a hazard, 

The  goods  are  first  high  and  then  low; 

Better  risk  the  old  farm  a while  longer, 

Don’t  be  in  a hurry  to  go.  < 

The  farm  is  the  safest  and  surest, 

The  orchards  are  loaded  to-day, 

You  are  free  as  the  air  in  the  mountains, 

And  monarch  of  all  you  survey. 

Better  stay  on  the  farm  a while  longer. 
Though  profit  comes  in  rather  slow  ; 

(Remember  you  have  nothing  to  risk,  boys, 
Don’t  be  in  a hurry  to  go. 

A BOY’S  WELCOME  TO  SPRING. 

Hurrah  for  the  jolly  old  Spring  time! 

I know  it’s  coming  for  sure, 

By  the  mud  I cover  my  boots  with, 

And  forget  to  wipe  off  at  the  door. 

And  this  is  the  week  of  vacation 

That  comes  with  the  spring-time,  you  know, 

Oh,  dear,  how  the  days  fly  like  minutes, 

But  mother  thinks  they  are  slow. 

I know  that  we  make  the  house  muddy, 

And  nearly  distract  her  with  noise ; 

But  this  is  the  spring  time  vacation, 

And  we  must  enjoy  it  like  boys. 

We  know  it  is  spring  when  the  hooples, 

And  tops,  balls,  and  marbles,  are  out ; 

70 


When  boys  that  have  moped  all  the  winter, 
Begin  to  stir  lively  and  shout. 

We  are  now  all  ready  for  marbles, 

New  patches  adorn  all  our  knees'; 

Our  fingers  are  nimble  and  limber, 

Don’t  have  to  wear  mittens,  or  freeze. 

There’s  leap-frog,  we’ve  played  at  all  winter 
It’s  good  for  the  muscles  and  blood, 

We  take  to  it  fresh  in  the  spring  time, 

What’s  softer  to  sit  in  than  mud  ? 

The  girls  are  all  talking  of  flowers, 

And  blue  birds,  and  breezes,  and  brooks, 

And  are  hunting  up  all  the  sweet  verses 
About  “ lovely  spring,”  in  their  books. 

It  comes  pretty  hard  on  a fellow, 

When  he  don’t  hear  the  first  robin  sing, 

Or  find  the  first  flower,  to  tell  him 
“ He  don’t  care  a bit  about  spring.” 

Don’t  every  glad  shout  give  it  welcome  ? 
Don’t  every  glad  leap  tell  our  joy  ? 

Yes!  Hurrah  for  the  jolly  old  Spring  time, 
What  more  could  you  ask  from  a boy  ? 


AUGUST— THE  VIRGIN. 


BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

Heigho ! how  loud  the  robins  red  are  singing, 

The  buttercups  shine  bravely  in  the  sun; 

W orld,  you  are  fair  with  all  your  blossoms  springing, 
I wish  the  summer  late  had  just  begun ! 

Beginnings  always  are  the  best  and  sweetest ; 

Night  lies  too  close  behind  the  sunset  pink; 

And  of  my  books,  the  happiest  and  completest 
Ends  sorrowfully,  after  all,  I think. 

Heart,  we  are  young!  What  do  we  know  of  sorrow? 

The  world  is  very  full  of  it,  they  say, 

And  life  and  love  their  truest  meaning  borrow 
From  Grief,  whose  wet  eyes  turn  to  Heaven  alway. 

Yet  when  I pause,  regretful,  backward  turning 
To  sunny  childhood’s  April  smiles  and  tears, 

I feel  my  heart  leap  with  a swift  yearning 
To  know  the  secrets  of  the  coming  years. 

I dream — O happy  dream! — of  joy  and  blessing. 

Hope  is  so  sweet — what  can  fulfillment  be? 

If  grief  must  come — ah  well!  no  need  of  guessing; 
The  future  secrets  are  not  yet  for  me. 

X only  know  how  joyous  is  the  present, 

How  glad  the  summers  answer  to  the  spring; 

I only  know  the  past  was  fair  and  pleasant, 

I only  know  the  song  the  robins  sing. 

And  very  tender  are  the  hearts  that  love  me, 

And  very  dear  the  hopes  of  womanhood, 

And  very  blue  the  sweet  skies  are  above  me, 

And  the  earth  is  beautiful — and  God  is  good. 

72 


How  can  I be  but  glad  in  very  living? 

I leart,  we  are  young!  Life  you  are  very  fair! 

My  hand  is  yours,  your  many  faults  forgiving, 

I walk  with  you,  dear  Life,  I know  not  where! 

Sing,  robin,  all  your  blithest  carols  sing  me ! 

Shine,  blossoms,  bravely  in  the  August  sun ! 

Come  loitering  years,  I fear  not  what  you  bring  me. 
My  own  glad  summer  now  is  just  begun ! 


’TIS  HOME  WHERE’ER  OUR  FLAG  IS. 


’Tis  home  where’er  flag  is, 

Dear  hearts,  remember  that ! 

You  may  be  at  Pekin,  Paris, 

Madrid,  or  Ararat; 

But  wheresoe’er  waves  that  fair, 

That  bonnie  banner  blue, 

With  stars  bedight,  with  stripes  so  bright. 
There’s  home,  sweet  home,  for  you ! 

Sweet  home  where’er  our  flag  is, 

Honor  ’neath  its  stars, 

If  waved  from  foreign  crag  ’tis, 

That  foreign  crag  is  ours ! 

Columbia’s  dower  gives  peerless  power 
To  guard  her  children  true; 

And  wheresoe’er  our  colors  flare, 

There’s  home  for  me  and  you ! 


75 


jj 


Dark  as  the  clouds  of  even, 
Banked  in  the  western  heaven, 
Wading  the  breath  that  lifts 
All  the  dead  mass,  and  drifts 
Tempest  and  falling  brand 
Over  a ruined  land — 

So  still  and  orderly, 

Arm  to  arm,  knee  to  knee, 
Waiting  the  great  event. 

Stands  the  black  regiment. 

Down  the  long  dusky  line 
Teeth  gleam  and  eyeballs  shine; 
And  the  bright  bayonet, 
Bristling  and  firmly  set, 

Flashed  with  a purpose  grand, 
Long  ere  the  sharp  command 
Of  the  fierce  rolling  drum 
Told  them  their  time  had  come, 
Told  them  what  work  was  sent 
For  the  black  regiment. 


*. 


“ Now,”  the  flag-sergeant  cried, 
“ Though  death  and  hell  betide. 
Let  the  whole  nation  see 


I 


76 


If  we  are  fit  to  be 
Free  in  this  land;  01  bound 
Down,  like  the  whining  hou:«  i — 
Bound  with  red  stripes  of  pain 
In  our  cold  chains  again!” 

O,  what  a shout  there  went 
From  the  black  regiment! 

“Charge!”  Trump  and  drum  awoke ; 
Onward  the  bondmen  broke  ; 

Bayonet  and  saber-stroke 
Vainly  opposed  their  rush. 

Through  the  wild  battle’s  crush. 

With  but  one  thought  aflush, 

Driving  their  lords  like  chaff, 

In  the  guns’  mouths  they  laugh  , 

Or  at  the  slippery  brands 
Leaping  with  open  hands, 

Down  they  tear  man  and  horse, 

Down  in  their  awful  course  ; 
Trampling  with  bloody  heel 
Over  the  crashing  steel — 

All  their  eyes  forward  bent, 

Rushed  the  black  regiment. 

“ Freedom  !”  their  battle-cry — 

“ Freedom  !”  or  “ leave  to  die !” 

Ah ! and  they  meant  the  word, 

Not  as  with  us  ’tis  heard, 

Not  a mere  party  shout ; 

They  gave  their  spirits  out, 

Trusted  the  end  to  God, 

And  on  the  gory  sod 
Rolled  in  triumphant  blood. 

Glad  to  strike  one  free  blow, 
Whether  for  weal  or  woe  ; 

Glad  to  breathe  one  free  breath, 

77 


Though  on  the  lips  of  death ; 
Praying  alas  ! in  vain  ! 

So  they  could  once  more  see 
That  burst  of  liberty  ! 

This  was  what  “ freedom”  lent 
To  the  black  regiment ! 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  fell; 
But  they  are  resting  well ; 
Scourges  and  shackles  strong 
Never  shall  do  them  wrong. 

O,  to  the  living  few, 

Soldiers,  be  just  and  true ! 

Hail  them  as  comrades  tried ; 
Fight  with  them  side  by  side ; 
Never,  in  field  or  tent, 

Scorn  the  black  regiment ! 


THE  IRISHWOMAN’S  LETTER. 

M.  A.  DENISOK. 

An  sure  I was  told  to  come  in  till  your  honor. 

To  see  would  ye  write  a few  lines  to  Pat. 

He’s  gone  for  a soger  is  Misther  O’Connor, 

Wid  a stripe  on  his  arm,  and  a band  on  his  hat. 

And  what’ll  ye  tell  him  ? shurc  it  must  be  aisy 
For  the  likes  of  yer  honor  to  spake  with  a pen. 
Tell  him  I m well,  and  mavourneen  Daisy 
(The  baby  yer  honor)  is  better  again. 

For  whin  he  wint  off  so  sick  was  the  crayther, 

She  niver  hilt  up  her  blue  eyes  to  his  lace  : 

78 


And  when  I’d  be  crying  he’d  look  at  me  wild  like, 
And  ax  “ Would  I wish  for  the  counthry’s  dis- 
grace ?” 

So  he  left  her  in  danger,  and  me  sorely  gravin, 
And  followed  the  flag  wid  an  Irishman’s  joy ; 
And  it’s  often  I drame  of  the  big  drums  a batin 
And  a bullet  gone  straight  through  the  heart  of 
my  boy. 

Tell  him  to  send  us  a bit  of  his  money, 

For  the  rint  and  the  docther’s  bill,  due  in  a wake, 
And  sure  there’s  a tear  on  your  eyelashes,  honey, 
I’  faith  had  no  right  with  such  fradom  to  spake. 

I’m  over  such  trifling,  I’ll  not  give  ye  trouble, 

I’ll  find  some  one  willing,  oh  what  can  it  be? 
What’s  that  in  the  newspaper  folded  up  double? 
Yer  honor  don’t  hide  it,  but  rade  it  to  me. 

Dead  ! Patrick  O’Connor!  oh,  God  it’s  some  ither, 
Shot  dead  ! shure  ’tis  a wake  scarce  gone  by, 
And  the  kiss  on  the  chake  of  his  sorrowin’  mother, 
It  hasn’t  hed  time,  yer  honor,  to  dry. 

Dead  ! dead  ! O God,  am  I crazy  ? 

Shure  it’s  breaking  my  heart  ye  are  telling  me  so, 
And  what  in  the  world  will  I do  wid  poor  Daisy  ? 

0 what  can  I do  ? where  can  I go  ? 

This  room  is  so  dark, — I’m  not  seein’  yer  honor, 

1 think  I’ll  go  home, — and  a sob  hard  and  dry, 
Rose  up  from  the  bosom  of  Mary  O’Connor, 

But  never  a tear  welled  up  to  her  eye. 


SEPTEMBER.  — THE  BALANCE. 

BY  MARGARET  JONNSON, 

He  counted  out  the  clinking  coin. 

And  heaped  it  shining  in  the  scale, 

“A  very  goodly  pile ! ” said  he, 

“ These  figures  tell  a pleasant  tale,” 

And  smiled  to  see  the  evening  sun 
Burn  redly  on  the  coin  he  spun. 

“You  are  not  covetous,  good  dame, 

Else  had  you  never  seen  my  gold, 

And  yet  I trow  you  scarce  would  scorn 
This  gleaming  heap,  if  truth  were  told.” 

She  laughed  and  shook  her  proud  young  head. 
“A  goodly  pile,  indeed ! ” she  said. 

“ Y ou  love  your  yellow  treasure  too, 

I know,  for  — hark ! ” her  fair  cheek  glowed. 

“ I too  have  weighed  my  growing  wealth  — 
The  scale  these  selfsame  numbers  showed. 

Yours  is  a pretty  sum  and  round, 

Yet  I can  match  it  pound  for  pound.” 

“Forsooth!  ” he  cried  in  merry  scorn, 

“ Come,  prithee  bring  the  riches  out, 

That  we  may  weigh  them  ‘ pound  for  pound,’ 
And  prove  your  word  beyond  a doubt. 

Unless  so  locked  away  they  be 

That  you  yourself  have  not  the  key.” 

80 


“ Nay,  friend,”  she  laughed  with  happy  eyes, 
“ I keep  my  treasure  safely  hid, 

But  not  within  the  moldy  ground 
Or  underneath  an  iron  lid. 

I count  it  secretly  apart, 

And  wear  it  always  next  my  heart.” 

She  caught  her  baby  from  the  floor, 

A creeping,  cooing,  dimpled  thing, 

That  struggled  in  its  mother’s  arms 
To  reach  the  gold,  with  lusty  spring, 

And  babbled  at  the  dazzling  sight, 

A wordless  language  of  delight. 

She  pressed  the  velvet  cheek  to  hers, 

And  kissed  the  silken,  sunny  head, 

“Come,  are  you  ready?  shall  we  weigh 
The  treasure,  pound  for  pound?”  she  said, 
And  then  with  tender  triumph  smiled, 

And  in  the  balance  laid  her  child. 


ULYSSES. 

[The  following  eloquent  tribute  to  General  Grant  is  from  the  pen 
of  Robert  Buchanan,  and  was  written  a few  weeks  previous  to  the 
hero’s  death.] 

One  sunset  I beheld  an  Eagle  flying 
‘Mong  the  lone  mountains  of  the  Hebrides — 
Faintly  he  falter’d  on,  half  spent  and  dying, 
Between  the  kindled  crags,  the  darkening  seas. 

Before  the  wind  he  sail’d  on  feeble  pinions, 

From  chasm  to  chasm,  from  lonely  peak  to  peak ; 
King  had  he  been  for  years  of  those  dominions, 
And  kingly  seem’d  he  still,  tho’  worn  and  weak 

83 


Piteous  it  was  to  see  that  bird  imperial, 

Whose  flight  had  known  no  bounds,  yvhose 
strength  no  chain, 

Drifting  in  desolation  to  his  burial 
Somewhere  in  those  cold  regions  of  the  rain. 

Yet  have  I lived  to  see  a sight  more  sorry, 

Here  in  the  mighty  land  where  men  are  free- 
^ The  eagle- warrior,  lone  with  all  his  glory, 
Floating  thro’  clouds,  close  to  a sunless  sea ! 

The  shape  that  on  the  wind  of  tribulation 
Hover’d,  and  ruled  the  tempest  like  its  lord, 

The  soldier-hero  who  redeemed  a nation, 

And  cut  man’s  chains  asunder  with  his  sword. 

The  silent  leader,  who  arose  victorious 
Out  of  a flood  of  hate,  a sea  of  death, 

Now,  fallen  on  darkness  and  a time  inglorious, 
Flutters  so  near  the  ground,  with  failing  breath ! 

Oh,  God  ! it  seems  but  only  yester  even 
The  trumpet  of  Euroclydon  was  blown, 

The  storm-cloud  gather’d,  and  the  fiery  levin 
Lighted  the  world,  and  flash’d  from  zone  to 
zone ! 

’Mid  sounds  of  lamentation  and  of  weeping, 

Cries  of  the  waking  who  had  slept  so  long, 

Upcircling  swiftly  thro’  the  tempest  sweeping, 
The  eagle  rose,  with  flight  supreme  and  strong. 

His  voice  was  in  the  storm,  above  the  thunder. 
His  war-cry  thrill’d  the  land  from  shore  to  shore; 

Not  till  the  battle  cloud  was  cloven  asunder, 

He  sought  his  eyrie,  and  look’d  down  once 
more ! 


Feeble  and  weary,  yet  thro’  all  disaster, 

Silent  and  self-contain’d,  serene  and  proud, 

Master  of  men,  and  of  his  own  soul  master, 

Behold  him  drifting  now,  from  cloud  to  cloud  ! 

So  wearily  his  slow,  sad  flight  he  urges, 

Unrestful,  fearless-eyed,  as  heretofore, 

Then  pauses,  calmly  hst’ning  to  the  surges 
Thund’ring  so  near,  on  some  eternal  shore. 

The  people  raise  their  pitying  eyes  to  view  him, 
Weary  he  is  and  weak,  yet  will  not  rest, 

Tho’  Washington  is  brightly  beck’ning  to  him 
From  the  yet  widening  blue  of  yonder  West ! 

But  lo ! a Form,  with  radiant  robes  around  her, 
Uprises,  follow’d  by  a shadowy  train, 

Crowns  him  with  love  who  once  with  glory  crown’d 
her, 

Blesses  the  hands  that  broke  her  last  strong 
chain ! 

Smile  then,  Ulysses!  Tho’  thy  Troy  hath  ended, 
Tho’  all  thy  life’s  long  Odyssey  is  done, 

By  Lincoln  and  the  martyr-hosts  attended, 
Columbia  kneels  before  her  soldier-son  ! 

What  tho’  a little  space,  when  homeward  sailing, 
Thou  saw ’st  the  treacherous  isles  where  sirens 
dwell? 

The  sweetest  songs  they  sang  were  unavailing 
To  keep  God’s  warrior  underneath  their  spell. 

Thou  wast  not  made  to  herd  with  things  polluted, 
Grasp  dust  of  gold,  and  fawn  at  Circe’s  knee ; 

Thv  flight  was  sunward,  not  thro’  chasms  rooted 
With  leaves  that  fall  from  Mammon’s  upas-tree! 

85 


Rest,  wanderer,  in  the  sun,  Columbia  kisses 
Her  soldier’s  honor’d  brow,  and  clears  its 
gloom — 

And  this  white  lily  of  love  she  brings,  Ulysses, 
Was  plucked  upon  thy  brother  Lincoln’s  tomb! 


TIME  ENOUGH. 

Two  little  squirrels,  out  in  the  sun, — 

One  gathered  nuts  ; the  other  had  none ; 

“ Time  enough  yet,”  his  constant  refrain, 

“ Summer  is  still  just  on  the  wane.” 

Listen,  my  child,  while  I tell  you  his  fate : 

He  roused  him  at  last,  but  he  roused  him  too 
late ; 

Down  fell  the  snow  from  a pitiless  cloud, 

And  gave  little  squirrel  a spotless  white  shroud. 

T wo  little  boys  in  a schoolroom  were  placed : 
One  always  perfect,  the  other  disgraced ; 

“ Time  enough  yet  for  learning,”  he  said, 

“ I will  climb  by  and  by,  from  the  foot  to  the 
head.’* 

Listen,  my  friends ; their  locks  are  turned  gray ; 
One,  as  a governor,  sitteth  to-day, 

The  other,  a pauper,  looks  out  at  the  door 
Of  the  almshouse,  and  idles  his  days,  as  of  yore. 

T wo  kinds  of  people  we  meet  every  day  ; 

One  is  at  work,  the  other  at  play. 

Living,  uncared  for,  dying  unknown, 

The  busiest  hive  hath  ever  a drone. 

86 


FOR  THE  CHILDREN’S  SAKE. 

MRS.  L.  G.  MCVEAGH. 

Look  at  the  children  clustered  there, 

Busy  with  books,  or  wild  with  play, 

Which  of  our  darlings  can  we  spare 
To  keep  the  sidewalk  in  good  repair 
Or  to  pave,  with  stone,  the  public  way? 

Shall  it  be  yours,  with  the  forehead  fair, 

And  blue  eyes  lifted  fond  and  sweet? 

Shall  it  be  mine,  whose  dark  brown  hair 
Must  be  laid  low,  that  our  dainty  feet 
May  not  be  soiled  by  the  muddy  street? 
Somebody’s  girls  and  somebody’s  boys, 

Rum  is  crushing  there,  every  day, 

First  it  murders  their  infant  joys, 

And  steals  a father’s  care  away. 

Snatches  food  from  lips  that  pale, 

Strips  the  shoes  from  the  tiny  feet, 

Blackens  with  blows  the  shoulders  frail, 

But — it  brings  in  money  to  mend  the  street. 

Oh  men ! Oh  brothers ! with  ballots  to  cast, 

Ye  are  come  to  the  kingdom,  for  such  an  hour, 
The  hour  has  struck,  and  we  stand  at  last 
Where  God  has  granted  to  you  the  power. 
After  all  of  our  helpless  years, 

When  full  to  the  brim  was  our  cup  of  woe, 
The  answer  comes,  to  our  prayers  and  tears, 
And  it  rests  with  you.  Will  you  strike  the  blow: 
Now,  by  the  love  that  you  bear  your  own, 

For  the  sake  of  each  little  child  you  meet, 
Vote  “yes” — vote  “yes,”  if  never  a stone 
Is  laid  to  better  the  village  street, 

Where  safe  from  peril,  and  gay  and  sweet 
The  children  come  with  their  dancing  feet. 

87 


OCTOBER.— THE  SCORPION. 


BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

A very  little  weight  sometimes  will  turn 
A mighty  balance,  even  of  Life  and  Death, 

What  pains  and  perils,  we  may  never  learn, 

Have  passed  us  in  the  drawing  of  a breath. 

* *****  * 
Within  an  Eastern  forest,  far  away, 

Where  heavy  odors  filled  the  languid  air, 

And  giant  boughs  with  mossy  draperies  gray 
Shut  greenly  out  the  burning  noonday  glare. 
Beneath  the  silent,  overhanging  trees, 

Where  motionless  the  shadows  lay  and  deep. 

His  fair  limbs  pillowed  on  the  moss  at  ease, 

A drowsy  boy  had  thrown  himself  to  sleep. 

His  gathered  store  of  ferns  and  blossoms  pied 
Lay  dropped  beside  his  rosy  open  palm. 

The  song  upon  his  lips  had  scarcely  died 

When  slumber  hushed  them  into  smiling  calm. 

So  slept  he  softly  while  an  hour  went  by, 

Nor  guessed  that  danger  lurked  within  the  wild, 
But  dreamed  of  dew  and  rain  and  clouded  sky 

And  freshly  breathing  winds,  and  dreaming,  smiled. 
The  silent  yellow  sunshine  sifted  down 

And  touched  the  quiet  face  with  wavering  sheen. 
A single  knot  of  ferns  and  grasses  brown 

The  glad  young  life  and  eager  Death  between. 

A noise  that  sharply  broke  the  silent  deep  — 

A nut  jarred  down  by  squirrels  in  their  play  — 

The  boy  sprang,  bright-eyed,  from  his  happy  sleep, 
Took  up  his  song,  and  singing,  went  his  way. 

And  through  the  tangled  grass,  where  he  had  slept 
With  sting  upraised,  a deadly  Scorpion  crept. 

88 


SOLILOQUY  OF  ARNOLD. 

EDWARD  C.  JONES. 

The  plan  is  fixed  ; I fluctuate  no  more 
Betwixt  despair  and  hope.  As  leaves  the 
shore 

The  hardy  mariner,  though  adverse  fate 
May  merge  his  bark,  or  cast  him  desolate 
Upon  a savage  coast,  so,  wrought  at  last 
Up  to  a frenzied  purpose,  I have  passed 
The  Rubicon.  Farewell,  my  old  renown! 
Here  I breathe  mildew  on  my  warrior  crown; 
Here  honor  parts  from  me,  and  base  deceit 
Steps  to  the  usurper’s  throne  ; I cannot  meet 
The  withering  censure  of  the  rebel  band, 
And  therefore  to  the  strong  I yield  this  heart 
and  hand. 

What  else  befits  me  ? I have  misapplied 
The  nation’s  funds,  and  ever  gratified 
Each  vaulting  wish,  though  justice  wept  the 
deed ; 

And  here,  beneath  the  load  of  pressing  need, 
I must  have  gold.  How  else  the  clamorous 
cry 

Of  creditors  appease,  and  satisfy 
Demands  which  haunt  me  more  than  dreams 
of  blood, 

And  claims  which  chill  more  than  Canadian 
flood? 

Stay  ? My  accounts  betray  the  swindler’s 
mark. 

Go?  And  my  path,  though  smooth,  like  Tar- 
tarus is  dark. 

These  rocky  ridges,  how  they  shelve  on 
high, 

Each  a stern  sentinel  in  majesty. 

9i 


Yes,  ’tis  your  own  Gibraltar,  Washington  ! 
And  must  the  stronghold  of  his  hope  be  won  ? 
Won?  Twenty  thousand  scarcely  could 
invest 

That  sure  defence,  which  o’er  the  river’s 
breast 

Casts  a gigantic  shadow  ; but  my  plan 
Dispenses  with  the  formidable  van, 

And  Clinton  may  my  garrison  surprise, 

With  few  sulphurous  clouds  to  blot  these 
azure  skies. 

And  yet  a pang  comes  over  me — I see 
Myself  at  Saratoga ; full  and  free 
Goes  up  the  peal  of  noble-hearted  men  ; 
Among  the  wounded  am  I numbered  then, 
And  my  outgushing  feelings  cling  to  those 
Who  periled  all  to  face  their  country’s  foes. 
Ah ! when  that  wound  a soldier’s  pride  in- 
creased, 

And  gratulation  scarce  its  paean  ceased, 

I thought  not  then,  oh,  God ! the  stamp  of 
shame 

Would  stand  imprinted  thus  upon  my  hard- 
earned  fame. 

Avaunt,  compunction ! Conscience  to  the 
wind  ! 

Gold,  gold  I need — gold  must  Sir  Henry  find ! 
A rankling  grudge  is  mine,  for  why  not  I 
Commander  of  their  forces?  To  the  sky 
Ever  goes  up  the  peal  for  Washington. 

Is  he  a god,  Virginia’s  favored  son  ? 

Why  should  the  incense  fume  forevermore? 
Must  he  my  skill,  my  prowess  shadow  o’er? 
Ere  this  autumnal  moon  has  filled  his  horn, 
His  honors  must  be  nipped,  his  rising  glories 
shorn. 


92 


Ah  ! he  securely  rests  upon  my  faith — 
Securely,  when  the  specter  dims  his  path ! 
How  unsuspecting  has  he  ever  been  ; 

Above  the  false,  the  sinister,  the  mean  ! 

But  hold  such  eulogy — I will  not  praise ; 
Mine  is  the  task  to  tarnish  all  his  bays. 

West  Point,  thy  rocky  ridges  seem  to  say, 
Be  firm  as  granite,  crown  the  work  to-day, 
Blot  Saratoga,  hearth  and  home  abjure, 
Andre  I meet  again — the  gold  I must  secure. 


THE  STYLISH  CHURCH. 

'iWell,  wife,  I’ve  been  to  church  to-day,  been  to  a 
stylish  one  ; 

And  seein’  you  can’t  go  from  home,  I’ll  tell  you 
what  was  done. 

You  would  have  been  surprised  to  see  what  I saw 
there  to-day, 

The  sisters  were  fixed  up  so  fine,  they  hardly 
bowed  to  pray. 

I had  on  these  coarse  clothes  of  mine, 

Not  much  the  worse  for  wear; 

But  then  they  knew  I wasn’t  one  they  call  a 
millionare,  [the  door, 

So  they  led  the  old  man  to  a seat,  away  back  by 

JTwas  bookless  and  uncushioned,  reserved  there 
for  the  poor ! 

Pretty  soon  in  came  a stranger  with  gold  ring 
and  clothing  fine, 


They  led  him  to  a cushioned  seat,  far  in  advance  of 
mine ; 

I thought  that  wan’t  exactly  right,  to  set  him  up  so 
near,  , . , , , 

When  he  was  young  and  I was  old,  and  very  hard 
to  hear ! 

I couldn’t  hear  the  sermon,  I sat  so  far  away, 

So  through  the  hour  of  ^service,  I could  only 
“ watch  and  pray.” 

Watch  the  ’doin’s  of  the  Christians,  sitting  near 
me  round  about,  . . 

Pray  tnat  God  would  make  them  pure  within,  as 
they  were  pure  without.  . 

While  I sat  there  looking  all  around  upon  the  rich 
and  great,  , , . 

I kept  thinking  of  the  rich  man,  and  the  beggar  at 
the  gate ; , , 

How  by  all  but  dogs  forsaken,  the  poor  beggar  s 
form  grew  cold, 

And  the  angels  bore  his  spirit  to  the  mansions 
built  of  gold. 

How  at  last  the  rich  man  perished,  and  his  spirit 
took  its  flight 

From  the  purple  and  fine  linen  to  the  home  oi 
endless  night. 

There  he  learned  as  he  stood  gazing  at  the  beggar 
in  the  sky,  „ . , , A ,.  „ 

“ It  isn’t  all  of  life  to  live,  or  all  of  death  to  die; 

I doubt  not  there  were  wealthy  sires,  in  that 
religious  fold, 

Who  went  u|  from  their  dwellings  like  the  Pharisee 

Then  returned  home  from  their  worship,  with  then- 

heads  uplifted  high. 

To  spurn  the  hungry  from  their  door,  with  naught 
to  satisfy. 


94 


Out,  out,  with  such  professions ! they  are  doing 
more  to-day 

To  stop  the  weary  sinner  from  the  gospel’s  shining 
way 

Than  all  the  books  of  infidels,  than  all  that  has  been 
tried 

Since  Christ  was  born  in  Bethlehem,  since  Christ 
was  crucified. 

I’m  old,  I may  be  childish,  but  I love  simplicity  ; 

I love  to  see  it  shinin’  in  a Christian  piety  ; 

Jesus  told  us  in  his  sermons,  on  Judea’s  mountain 
wild, 

He  that  wants  to  go  to  heaven,  must  be  as  a little 
child. 

Our  heads  are  growing  gray,  dear  wife,  our  hearts 
are  beating  low ; 

In  a little  while  the  Master  will  call  for  us  to  go; 

When  we  reach  the  pearly  gateways,  and  look  in 
with  joyful  eyes 

We’ll  see  no  stylish  worship,  in  the  temple  in  the 
skies. 


NOVEMBER. 


THE  ARCHER. 


BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

O,  blithely  over  the  hills  he  came, 

His  yellow  locks  they  shone  like  flame, 
Upon  the  north  wind  streaming. 

Across  his  stalwart  shoulders  slung, 

His  bow  and  quiver  lightly  swung, 

With  frost  of  jewels  gleaming. 

He  stepped  into  the  circle  green, 

The  Archers  shot  with  arrows  keen, 
Their  skill  and  valor  trying. 

The  slender  youths  with  sparkling  eyes, 
Strained  nerve  and  will  to  gain  the  prize, 
Each  with  the  other  vying. 

Then  sprang  the  Archer  from  his  place, 

A smile  upon  his  glowing  face, 

His  bright  locks  backward  flinging. 

He  bent  his  flexile  bow  with  care, 

His  arrows  cleft  the  dazzled  air, 

With  shrill,  incessant  singing. 

They  smote  the  leaves  from  off  the  trees, 
Their  rushing  raised  a might}'  breeze, 
That  drove  the  clouds  a-flying ; 

Their  feathers  floated  white  and  dun, 

And  made  a mist  before  the  sun 
In  windy  splendor  dying. 

His  bow-string  snapped.  In  mute  amaze, 
The  Archers  followed  with  their  gaze, 
As,  in  a bright  derision, 

His  ringing  laughter  echoing  shrill, 

He  bounded  backward  toward  the  hill, 
And  vanished  from  their  vision. 


THANKSGIVING  IN  YE  OLDEN  TIME. 

A life  more  happy  seemed  to  fill 
The  homestead  ’neath  the  sheltering  hill ; 

A gentle  stir  of  winds  at  play, 

That  kept  in  mind  Thanksgiving  Day. 

Upon  the  roof-tree  sloping  down, 

Of  late  had  come,  a glistening  crown 

Of  snow,  and  dropped  beneath  the  eaves, 

The  woodbines  red,  and  withered  leaves. 

And  thus  the  homestead  peaceful  stood 
Amidst  November  quietude. 

Inside,  the  housewife  plied  her  art 
With  busy  hand,  and  anxious  heart ; 

For  three  whole  days,  a conflict  dire 
Is  waged  ’twixt  eatables  and  fire. 

Still  does  the  crane  not  cease  to  groan, 

Still  does  the  oven  hold  its  own. 

Now,  conscious  of  her  skill  and  might, 

The  house-dame  with  her  skirts  drawn  tight, 

And  cap  askew,  with  flying  strings, 

The  closet  fills  with  dainty  things. 

The  children  peep  with  eyes  aglow 
To  see  her  place  the  pies  in  row, 

And  steal  to  get  with  smack  and  sniff, 

Of  steaming  conserves,  just  a whiff. 

The  day  has  come  ! The  blushing  morn 
Now  hears  the  lumbering  stage-coach  horn 


99 


That  ’mid  the  echoings  of  the  hills, 

The  homestead  with  a tremor  fills. 

First  at  the  door,  the  grandsire  gray 
Puts  forth  his  staff,  his  steps  to  stay  ; 

The  toddler,  prattling  at  his  knee 

Thrusts  forth  his  head,  the  coach  to  see. 

The  stalwart  son,  who  bides  at  home 
Into  the  doorway  too,  has  come  ; 

His  wife  and  baby  now  appear, 

Hark ! ’tis  the  sound  of  wheels  they  hear. 

The  stage  at  last,  with  stately  sweep, 

Comes  round  the  curve,  and  from  it  leap 

The  city  sons  who  left  the  farm, 

And  join  the  group  with  greeting  warm. 

Quick  bounding  at  the  prick  of  goad 
A pillioned  nag  trots  up  the  road, 

And  pausing  at  the  humble  stoop 
Adds  two  new  comers  to  the  group. 

The  meeting  house  looms  white  and  bare 
High  on  the  hill,  above  them  there. 

And  in  its  steeple  thumps  and  sways 
The  bell  that  calls  to  prayer  and  praise. 

The  feast,  at  last!  The  grace  is  said, 

And  up  bobs  every  eager  head. 

And  bright  eyes,  like  some  greedy  power, 

Go  seeking  what  they  may  devour. 

The  turkey  at  the  feast  is  lost, 

The  chickens  get  their  drum  sticks  crossed. 

And  empty  plates  just  filled  with  pies 
The  good  wife  marks  with  smiling  eyes. 

Each  finds  his  limit  reached  at  last ; 

The  apples  come,  the  nuts  are  passed. 

The  mugs  of  cider,  brimming  stand, 

And  jokes  fly  round  on  every  hand. 


So  goes  the  day  till  evening  comes, 

And  on  the  hob  the  kettle  hums ; 

The  roasting  apple  puffs  its  cheek, 

And  children  play  at  hide-and-seek. 

Perhaps  this  day,  in  years  to  come 
May  find  them  wanderers  from  home. 

And  with  joy-haunting  memories  cheer 
The  shadows  of  that  changeful  year. 

COVER  THEM  OVER  WITH  FLOWERS. 

Cover  them  over  with  beautiful  flowers, 

Deck  them  with  garlands,  those  brothers  of  ours, 
Lying  so  silent  by  night,  and  by  day, 

Sleeping  the  years  of  their  manhood  away. 

Give  them  the  meed  they  have  won  in  the  past 
Give  them  the  honors  their  future  forecast, 

Give  them  the  chaplets  they  won  in  the  strife, 
Give  them  the  laurels  they  lost  with  their  life. 

Cover  the  hearts  that  have  beaten  so  high, 
Beaten  with  hopes  that  were  doomed  but  to  die  ; 

Hearts  that  have  yearned  for  the  home  far  away. 
Once  they  were  glowing  with  friendship  and  love, 
Now  those  great  spirits  are  soaring  above. 
Bravely  their  blood  to  the  nation  they  gave, 

Then  in  her  bosom  they  found  there  a grave. 

Cover  the  thousands  who  sleep  far  away ; 

Sleep  where  their  friends  cannot  find  them  to-day. 

They  who  on  mountain,  and  hillside,  and  dell, 
Rest  where  they  wearied,  and  lie  where  they  fell. 

Softly  the  grass  blade  creeps  round  their  repose, 
Sweetly  above  them  the  wild  floweret  blows, 
Zephyrs  of  freedom  fly  gently  o’erhead, 
Whispering  prayers  for  the  patriot  dead. 


ior 


When  the  long  years  have  rolled  slowly  away, 
E’en  to  the  dawn  of  earth’s  funeral  day  ; 

When  at  the  angels’  loud  trumpet  and  tread, 
Rise  up  the  faces  and  forms  of  the  dead, 

When  the  great  world  its  last  judgment  awaits, 
Then  the  blue  sky  shall  fling  open  its  gates, 

And  the  long  columns  march  solemnly  through  ; 
Blessings  for  garlands  shall  cover  them  o’er, 
Fathers,  husbands,  brothers,  and  lovers, 

Cover  them  over,  these  brothers  of  ours, 

Cover  them  all  with  beautiful  flowers. 


DECEMBER— THE  SEA  GOAT. 

BY  MARGARET  JOHNSON. 

He  butted  back  with  angry  horns 
The  waves  that  broke  against  his  side, 

He  lashed  them  with  his  glistening  tail  . 
Until  there  blew  a mighty  gale  ; 

Tumultuous  rose  the  tide. 

The  sea  plants  shut  their  trembling  leaves, 
The  fishes  fled  to  nooks  remote, 

And  every  creature  shook  to  hear 
The  raging  of  the  angry  Goat. 

With  broken  wings,  a hapless  ship 
Did  roll  beneath  the  wintry  sky  ; 

To  stormy  wind  and  boisterous  main, 

The  faithful  mariners  in  vain 
Sent  out  a piteous  cry  ; 


102. 


Old  Neptune  thundered  from  his  throne, 
And  Triton  blew  a warning  note  ; 

With  plunging  hoofs  and  furious  horns, 
Still  in  the  tempest  raged  the  Goat. 

Then  from  her  cave,  a pale  sea-maid, 
With  green  and  gleaming  locks,  did  glide, 
And  crossing  on  her  breast  her  hands, 

All  whiter  than  the  white  sea-sands, 

Went  singing  down  the  tide. 

( ) crystal  clear  the  liquid  strain 
That  rippled  from  her  silver  throat — 

The  melody  that  lulled  the  waves 
And  hushed  the  fury  of  the  Goat. 

Oh,  blithely  sailed  the  happy  ships  ; 

And  oh,  a blithe  and  merry  tune, 

While  soft  the  sea-maid’s  music  rang, 

The  happy  mariners  they  sang 
Beneath  the  wintry  moon  ; 

The  glimmering  fishes  circled  near  , 

The  blossoms  waved  like  flames  afloat ; 
The  sea-maid,  laughing,  bound  her  hair 
Serenely  by  the  sleeping  Goat. 


ONLY  AN  ^MIGRANT. 


Only  an  emigrant  lying  there 
On  the  rock-bound  coast  of  Halifax  bay, 

With  the  salt  sea  damp  on  his  yellow  hair, 

And  his  face  aghast  in  death’s  dismay  ! 

Only  an  emigrant ! One  of  five  hundred  ; 
Hurled  to  his  doom  when  some  one  blundered. 

When  the  rich  go  down  we  may  reckon  the  cost! 

And  value  their  lives  and  what  they  are  worth  ; 
But  who  will  weep  for  the  emigrant  lost — 

This  clod  of  clay  that  cumbered  the  earth  ? 
Drive  the  nails  in  his  coffin-lid : 

And  let  his  corpse  from  our  sight  be  hid. 

But  list,  I pray.  Leagues  on  leagues  away, 

In  a turf-thatched  hut  on  the  Irish  shore, 
There  are  human  hearts  which  are  breaking 
to-day ; 

And  bright  hopes  dashed  for  evermore, 

And  eyes  half  blinded  with  passionate  tears, 
And  the  dreary  outlook  of  desolate  years. 

Only  an  emigrant  lying  there, 

Lifeless  and  mute  in  Halifax  bay, 

But  his  soul  was  strong  and  his  skies  were  fair 
When  he  left  his  home — a month  to-day. 

He  fondled  his  child  and  kissed  his  wife 
Ere  he  sought  new  scenes  in  the  battle  of  life 

Brawny  his  hands  and  brave  his  heart, 

And  firm  his  belief  that  the  hour  would  come 
When  those  with  whom  he  dreaded  to  part 
Should  join  him  again  in  a western  home, 
Hopeful  and  happy  and  rich,  and  free, 

In  a better  land  beyond  the  sea. 

106 


Only  an  emigrant’s  family  there 

In  the  Irish  home  where  the  news  has  sped, 
But  the  terrible  look  of  utter  despair 
Makes  the  face  of  the  living  as  sad  as  the  dead ; 
For  the  light  of  their  lives  went  out  that  day, 
When  the  ship  struck  the  rocks  in  Halifax  bay. 

Only  an  emigrant  lying  there, 

With  his  parted  lips  grown  ashen  gray, 

With  the  sea  damp  on  his  yellow  hair, 

And  his  face  aghast  in  death’s  dismay  ! 

O merciful  God  ! take  his  soul  to  thee, 

In  the  better  land  beyond  the  sea. 


“MUSIC  HATH  CHARMS.” 


Four  of  us  out  in  the  meadow, 

Four  of  us  under  a tree; 

Here’s  faithful  Flo,  her  playmate  Beau, 

And  my  violin,  and  me. 

We  are  the  two  performers — 

They  are  the  waiting  crowd; 

And  they  sit  and  stare,  with  so  grava  an  air, 

I could  almost  laugh  aloud. 

You  really  ought  to  watch  them 
While  the  tuning-up  takes  place  ! 

Oh,  the  dismal  howls  and  indignant  growls — 
The  misery  on  each  face  ! 

My  best  tunes  scarcely  please  them, 

Though  I play  rather  well — for  me  ; 

But  they  love  me  so,  they  would  scorn  to  go, 
And  leave  me  alone,  you  see. 

Birds  above  in  the  branches 
Listen  and  catch  the  tone  ; 

Then  away  they  thrill  with  a sound  so  shrill 
That  it  nearly  drowns  my  own. 

They  care  not  who  is  playing, 

Those  happy  birds  in  the  tree  : 

But  faithful  Flo  and  her  playmate  Beau 
Listen  for  love  of  me  ! 

108 


mm 


THE  ENGINEER. 

Trust  to  dreams,  Bill? 

I do!  Foolish — still, 

Do  you  mind  that  culvert — number  eight? 
I dreamt  the  train  was  there, 
Dusting  it,  too.  I’ll  swear  ! — 

We  were  more’n  twenty  minutes  late! 

Right  on  the  edge 
Of  that  trussle  bridge 
I saw  my  little  pet  gal,  little  Jane  ! — 

She’s  the  very  one  that’s  dead, 

But  I saw  her — her  head 
And  her  blue  eyes— just  as  plain  as  plain ! 

All  of  a sweat 
I whistled  brakes,  you  bet ! 

But  she  never  smiled  or  spoke ! 

She  floated  to  me  quick, 

Kissed  me  on  the  cheek, 

And  vanished  then ! — Then  I woke. 

Say  what  you  will, 

Dreams  have  their  meaning,  Bill. 
Pardner,  if  I should  go  up,  tell  my  wife— 
God  ! the  culvert — gone ! 

Jump,  Bill!  I’ll  hold  on 
To  the  brakes  here  ! Save  your  life ! 

Can’t  get  me  loose, 

Friends — it’s  no  use! 

’Twon’t  be  long,  though— let  me  lay. 

I’m  easy  so,  when  still. 

Somebody’s  call — ah,  here’s  Bill ! 
Don’t  fret,  pardner— I had  to  go  this  wa^ 


6 


hi 


Nobody  hurt  but  me? 

That’s  good  ! Bill,  you’ll  see 
The  old  woman?  Tell  her,  don’t  complain. 
There’s  money  in  the  bank — 

She’s  other  things  to  be  thank — 

Ah!  stoop  down.  Kiss  your  father,  little  Jane. 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled  ; 

Where  the  blades  of  the  grave  grass  quiver, 
Asleep  in  the  ranks  of  the  dead  ; 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 
Waiting  the  Judgment  Day  ; 

Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat; 

Each  with  the  battle  blood  gory 
In  the  dust  of  Eternity  meet. 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 
Waiting  the  Judgment  Day^ 

Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 
The  desolate  mourners  go  ; 

Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 
Alike  for  the"  friend  and  the  foe. 


1 1 2 


Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day; 

Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 
The  morning  sun  rays  fall ; 

With  a touch  impartially  tender 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all. 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 
Waiting  the  Judgment  Day  ; 
Bordered  with  gold  the  Blue, 
Mellowed  with  gold  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  summer  calleth, 

On  forest,  and  field  of  grain ; 

With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drops  of  rain. 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew 
Waiting  the  Judgment  Day; 

Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 

Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding 
The  generous  deed  was  done 

In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 
No  braver  battle  was  won. 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew. 

Waiting  the  Judgment  Day  ; 

Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 

Nor  the  winding  rivers  be  red  ; 

They  banish  our  anger  forever 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 


ii 


Waiting  the  Judgment  Day  ; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 


A LITTLE  BOY’S  THOUGHTS. 

I thought  when  I had  learned  my  letters 

That  all  my  troubles  were  o’er ; 

But  I find  myself  mistaken ; 

They  have  only  just  begun. 

Learning  to  read  was  awful, 
t But  nothing  like  learning  to  write. 

I’d  be  sorry  to  have  you  know  it — 

But  my  copy  book  is  a sight ! 

The  ink.  gets  over  my  fingers, 

The  pen  cuts  all  sorts  of  shines. 

And  won’t  do  at  all  as  I bid  it, 

The  letters  won’t  stay  on  the  lines, 

But  go  up  and  down  all  over 

As  though  they  were  dancing  a jig  ; 

They  are  there  in  all  shapes  and  sizes — 
Medium,  little  and  big. 

The  tails  of  the  g’s  are  so  contrary, 

The  handles  get  on  the  wrong  side 

Of  the  d’s  and  q’s  and  the  h’s, 

114 


LEARNING  TO  READ  WAS  AWKOI 


Though  I’ve  certainly  tried,  and  tried 
T°I  Teilf  ^em  look  just  right.  It  is  dreadfu 
I really  don  t know  what  to  do  • 

1 T/ettln^  almost  distracted— 

My  teacher  says  she  is,  too. 

There’d  be  some  comfort  in  learning 

o'  °-rId  through;  instead 
that,  there  are  books  waiting 
Ouite  enough  to  craze  my  held. 

Ihpres  the  multiplication  table 
And  grammar,  and  oh  ! dear  me  ! 

S n°  g°u°d  pIace  for  topping 
VV  hen  one  has  begun,  I see.  5 

My  teacher  says,  little  by  little 

n 1 v nTUntain-toPs  we  climb  ; 
it  isn  t all  done  in  a minute, 

But  only  a step  at  a time. 

^he  says  that  all  the  scholars, 

All  the  wise  and  learned  men, 

H?deach  to  begin  as  I do 
B that  s so,  where’s  my  pen  ? 

THEY"  SAY. 

ButhcanSfhp''  ah  WCU  suPP°se  they  do, 

But  can  they  prove  the  story  true? 

Suspicions  may  arise  from  nought 
But  malice,  envy,  want  of  thought ; 

Why  count  yourself  among  the  “ they,” 
Who  whisper  what  they  dare  not  say? 

AndyhHy\bUt  ^hy  !lhe  taIe  rehearse 
And  help  to  make  the  matter  worse? 

No  good  can  possibly  accrue 
*rom  telling  what  may  be  untrue- 


And  is  it  not  a better  plan 
To  speak  of  all  the  best  you  can  ? 

They  say  ! well,  if  it  should  be  true, 

Why  need  you  tell  the  tale  of  woe? 

Will  it  the  bitter  wrong  redress, 

Or  make  one  pang  of  sorrow  less? 

Will  that  the  erring  one  restore 
Henceforth,  to  “ go  and  sin  no  more  ” ? 

They  say  ! Oh  ! pause  and  look  within, 
See  how  the  heart  inclines  to  sin. 

Watch  ! lest  in  dark  temptation’s  hour, 
Thou  too,  should  sink  beneath  its  power. 
Pity  the  frail — weep  o’er  the  fall ; 

But  speak  the  good,  or  not  at  all. 


MEMORY. 

BY  JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 

’Tis  beauteous  night;  the  stars  look  brightly  down 
Upon  the  earth,  decked  in  her  robe  of  snow. 

No  light  gleams  at  the  window,  save  my  own, 

Which  gives  its  cheer  to  midnight  and  to  me. 

And  now,  with  noiseless  step,  sweet  Memory  comes 
And  leads  me  gently  through  her  twilight  realm. 
What  poet’s  tuneful  lyre  has  ever  sung 
Or  artist’s  delicate  pencil  e’er  portrayed 
The  enchanted,  shadowy  land  where  Memory  dwells? 
It  has  its  valleys,  cheerless,  lone  and  drear, 
Dark-shaded  by  the  mournful  cypress  tree; 

And  yet  its  sunlit  mountain  tops  are  bathed 


In  heaven’s  own  blue.  Upon  its  craggy  cliffs, 

Robed  in  the  dreamy  light  of  distant  years, 

Are  clustered  joys  serene  of  other  days. 

Upon  its  gentle,  sloping  hillsides  bend 
The  weeping  willows  o’er  the  sacred  dust 
Of  dear,  departed  ones  ; yet  in  that  land 
Where’er  our  footsteps  fall  upon  the  shore, 

They  that  were  sleeping  rise  from  out  the  dust 
Of  death’s  long,  silent  years,  and  round  us  stand, 

As  first  they  did  before  the  prison-tomb 
Received  their  clay  within  its  voiceless  halls. 

The  heavens  that  bend  above  that  land  are  hung 
With  clouds  of  various  hues.  Some  dark  and  chill, 
Surcharged  with  sorrow,  cast  their  somber  shade 
Upon  the  sunny,  joyous  land  below. 

Others  are  floating  through  the  dreamy  air, 

White  as  the  falling  snow,  their  margins  tinged 
With  gold  and  crimson  hues.  Their  shadows  fall 
Upon  the  flowery  meads  and  sunny  slopes, 

Soft  as  the  shadow  of  an  angel’s  wing. 

When  the  rough  battle  of  the  day  is  done, 

And  evening’s  peace  falls  gently  on  the  heart, 

I bound  away,  across  the  noisy  years, 

Unto  the  utmost  verge  of  memory’s  land, 

Where  earth  and  sky  in  dreamy  distance  meet, 

And  memory  dim  with  dark  oblivion  joins, 

Where  woke  the  first  remembered  sounds  that  fell 
Upon  the  ear  in  childhood’s  early  morn  ; 

And,  wandering  thence  along  the  rolling  years, 

I see  the  shadow  of  my  former  self 
Gliding  from  childhood  up  to  man’s  estate. 

The  path  of  youth  winds  down  through  many  a vale. 
And  on  the  brink  of  many  a dread  abyss, 

From  out  whose  darkness  comes  no  ray  of  light, 
Save  that  a phantom  dances  o’er  the  gulf 


121 


And  beckons  toward  the  verge.  Again  the  path 
Leads  o’er  the  summits  where  the  sunbeams  fall; 
And  thus  in  light,  in  sunshine  and  in  gloom, 
■Sorrow  and  joy,  this  life-path  leads  along. 


THE  DECORATING  MANIA. 

Charles  and  his  city  wife  came  home 
About  Thanksgiving  day  ; 

She’s  a smart  gal  an’  all  for  style, 

And  style  ain’t  much  my  way. 

She  looked  about  our  sitting-room 
(I  own  it’s  sort  o’  bare), 

And  said  she  soon  could  give  our  house 
A fashionable  air. 

“You  needn’t  purchase  things,”  says  she 
With  a superior  smile, 

“I’ll  use  your  common  household  goods, 
For  them  are  all  the  style.” 

And  with  a little  gilt  and  such, 

She  fixed  us  up  so  fine, 

That  when  I looked  about  the  house 
I hardly  knew  ’twas  mine. 

Well!  pa  and  me,  at  first  were  pleased 
But  pa  soon  cried  in  wrath, 

“Where  is  the  old  snow-shovel  gone? 

I want  to  make  a path.” 

And  there  it  was  a’  painted  up 
With  many  a bud  and  rose, 

And  hanging  on  the  parlor  wall 
By  sky-blue  ribbon  bows. 


122 


And  soon  it  was  my  turn  to  fret 
When  ironing  dav  came  round  ; 

I had  two  favorite  flatirons, 

But  only  one  1 found. 

I went  into  the  sitting-room 
Arjd  there  I found  the  mate 
All  gilded  up  to  look  like  gold, 

And  made  a paper-weight. 

And  when  pa  bought  a steak,  I found 
Of  broiler  I had  lack  ; 

The  gridron  was  fixed  to  be 
A fine  newspaper  rack. 

And  all  the  tins  for  jelly-cake 

Had  been  well  washed  from  grease, 
And  painted  up  like  plaques,  to  stand 
Upon  the  mantel-piece. 

But  wnen  pa  round  his  old  arm-chair 
That  hugged  the  kitchen  fire, 

A’  painted  white,  and  hung  with  bows, 
The  way  some  folks  admire. 

And  standing  in  the  sitting-room, 

Too  nice  and  fine  to  use, 

He  said  that  fashionable  styles 
He  henceforth  should  refuse. 

So  pa  and  me  we  both  agreed 
That  fashion  hadn’t  paid, 

And  that  we’d  use  our  common  things 
For  what  they  most  seemed  made. 

So  down  came  shovels,  down  came  pans, 
And  oft' came  every  bow, 

And  things  are  now  more  comfortable, 

If  not  so  much  for  show. 


123 


THE  RAIN-WAGON. 

MRS.  CLARA  DOTY  BATES. 

The  air  was  hushed  and  breathless, 

The  day  had  been  very  warm. 

And  a heavy  black  cloud  in  the  West 
Threatened  a thunder-storm. 

We  could  hear  the  terrible  rumble 
And  roar  as  the  thunder  burst ; 

And  Teddy  was  grave,  and  left  his  play, 

Afraid  from  the  very  first. 

At  last  down  came  the  shower 
In  a full  flood  from  the  sky, 

And  the  lightning  dazzled  us  with  its  blaze 
And  Teddy  began  to  cry. 

“ What  is  it  ” he  asked,  “ that  rattles 
So  dreadfully  overhead  ? ” 

“The  rain-wagon,  going  over  abridge,  ” 

The  little  nurse-girl  said. 

\h,  that  was  a pretty  notion, 

A wagon  made  of  the  rain, 

Perhaps  it  ran  on  an  iron  track 
As  runs  a railroad  train. 

And  the  sound  that  followed  the  lightning, 

And  echoed  so  far  and  loud, 

Was  only  the  roar  of  the  wagon  wheels 
When  it  came  to  a bridge  of  cloud. 

That  comforted  little  Teddy  ; 

He  did  not  cry  again  ; 

But  rather  grew  to  like  to  hear 
The  wagon  made  of  the  rain. 

Not  all  the  truths  of  science 

That  the  searching  world  has  taught, 

I am  sure  could  have  soothed  that  childish  fear. 
Like  the  nurse-girl’s  happy  thought. 

124 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

BY  W.  J.  LAMPTON. 


Dead, 

Are  tlie  blue  and  the  gray  ; 

Dead, 

And  the  terrible  fray 
Is  ended. 

Dead, 

Are  the  shot  and  the  shell  ; 

Dead, 

Is  the  conflict  they  tell ; 

And  splendid 

The  deeds  of  the  men  who  died 
For  opinion,  crucified. 

Dead, 

Are  the  gray  and  the  blue  ; 

Dead, 

Are  the  false  and  the  true  : 

Dead, 

Are  the  brothers,  who  fought ; 

Dead 

In  the  cause  each  one  thought 
Was  right ; 

Dead, 

And  the  night 
Of  the  past  is  gone, 

And  the  radiant  dawn 
Of  peace 

Has  broken  along  the  line 
Of  the  hills,  and  the  glad  sunshine 
Of  the  newer  day — of  war’s  surcease, 
Has  flooded  the  earth  with  glory, 
And  the  story 
Is  told 

In  the  flowers  we  bring  ; 


127 


In  the  fold 
Of  the  grand  old 
Flag  as  we  fling 
It  out  to  the  breeze, 

Today,  among  the  trees, 

Which  wave 
Above  the  brave, 

Who  sleep  beneath 
The  laurel  wreath, 

The  sweet  June  rose,  the  blue  hare  bell, 

The  cypress  and  the  asphodel. 

Dead, 

And  with  these  sons  have  died 
Sectional  hate  and  the  pride 
Which  killed. 

And  stilled 

Is  all  save  a country  unified. 

WHAT  THE  OLD  MAN  SAID. 

ALICE  ROBBINS. 

■“Well?  yes,  sir,  yes,  sir,  thankee!  so-so,  for  my 
time  o’  life : 

I ’m  pretty  gray,  and  bent  with  pains  that  cut  my 
nerves  like  a knife  ; 

The  winters  bear  hard  upon  me  ; the  summers 
scorch  me  sore  ; 

I ’m  sort  o’  weary  of  all  the  world  : and  I’m  only 
turned  threescore. 

“ My  old  father  is  ninety,  and  as  hearty  as  a buck : 
You  won’t  find  many  men  of  his  age  so  full  of 
vigor  and  pluck. 


12S 


He  felled  the  first  tree  cut  in  the  place,  and  laid 
the  first  log  down  ; 

And  living  an  honest,  temperate  life,  he’s  the  head 
man  of  the  town. 

“ But  you  see,  when  I was  twenty  or  so,  I wanted 
to  go  to  the  city  ; 

And  I got  with  a wild  set  over  there,  that  were 
neither  wise  nor  witty, 

And  so  I laid  the  foundation,  sir,  of  what  you  see 
to-day, — 

Old  little  past  the  prime  of  life,  and  a general  wast- 
ing away. 

“ ’T  ain’t  a natural  fever,  this,  sir ; it  ’s  one  no 
doctor  can  cure. 

I was  made  to  bear  strong  burdens,  ox-like  and 
slow,  but  sure  ; 

And  I only  lived  for  my  pleasures,  though  I had 
been  a Christian  bred, 

I lived  for  self,  sir,  and  here ’s  the  end — crawling 
about  half  dead  ! 

“Well,  well!  ’t  won’t  do  to  think  on ’t.  I try  to 
forget  my  pain, 

My  poisoned  blood,  and  my  shattered  nerves,  my 
wreck  of  body  and  brain  , 

Only,  I saw  you  drinking,  just  now, — drinking  that 
devil’s  drain ; 

There’s  where  I liked  to  have  stepped  into  hell, 
and  gone  by  the  fastest  train. 

“You  don’t  like  my  blunt  speech,  mebbe ; well, 
’tis  n't  the  nicest  out ; 

Only,  when  a man’s  looked  over  the  brink,  he 
knows  what  he’s  talking  about; 

X29 


And  if,  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  he  ’s  walked 
straight  into  the  flame, 

And  nothing  less  than  the  mercy  of  God  has  turned 
his  glory  to  shame, 

“ Then>  when  he  says  there ’s  a drunkard’s  hell 
you  d better  believe  it’s  true. 

I’ve  fought  with  the  devil  hand  to  hand,  and  tested 
him  through  and  through. 

We  know,  who ’ve  bartered  body  and  soul,  what 
body  and  soul  are  worth  ; 

And  there  s nothing  like  to  a drunkard’s  woe  in 
all  God’s  beautiful  earth. 

“ Wife,  children ! Haven’t  I had  them  ? Yes  ! 
no  man  has  had  sweeter  than  I ; 

But  children  and  wife  are  dead  and  dust— why 
what  could  they  do  but  die  ? 

Don  t ask  me  to  tell  you  of  them,  because  it  blots 
out  God’s  mercy  even  ; 

And  it  don’t  seem  sure,  though  I’ve  left  my  cups, 
that  my  sin  can  be  forgiven. 

“ I tell  you  it’s  hard  for  a shattered  hulk  to  drif^ 
into  harbor  safe, 

And  I feel  sometimes,  with  my  threescore  years 
like  a hopeless,  homeless  waif. 

But  there  s one  thing  certain  ; I’ve  overcome,  and 
I U fight  while  I draw  a breath, 

When  I see  a fine  young  fellow  like  you  going 
down  to  the  gates  of  death. 

u You’ll  laugh,  perhaps,  at  an  old  man’s  zeal?  1 
laughed  in  a young  man’s  glee  ; 

But  God  forbid,  if  you  reach  threescore,  you 
should  be  a wreck  like  me !” 

130 


library 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


Look  what  my  dear  old  hen’s  been  after  ! 

At  home,  in  a queer  old  cattle-shed, 

She  used  to  “ lay  ” on  a broken  rafter, 

Up  in  the  roof  above  my  head. 

But  now  on  the  deck,  quite  proud  and  quiet, 

She  sits  in  a basket  filled  with  straw  ; 

And,  just  to  improve  our  salt  meat  diet, 

Lays  the  prettiest  eggs  that  you  ever  saw . 

We’re  only  “ steerage,”  but  I’ve  been  saying 
The  “ first-class  ” haven’t  a hen  like  mine  ; 

She’s  a beautiful  hen,  and  so  good  for  “laying” — 
Why,  the  very  first  week  she  laid  me  nine  ! 

On  a long  sea  voyage  in  misty  weather 
It’s  rather  tiring  sometimes,  you  see  ; 

But  we’re  very  good  company  together — 

I talk  to  her  and  she  clucks  to  me. 

We  talk  of  the  dear  old  home  behind  us, 

And  the  strange  new  country  we’re  going  to  ; 

Nobody  seems  in  the  least  to  mind  us, 

What  we  are  saying  or  what  we  do. 

Father  is  dead,  and  so  is  mother, 

And  Bridget  is  married  across  the  sea  : 

Bridget’s  my  sister — I have  no  other — 

And  so  she  has  sent  for  my  hen  and  me. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

[MARK  LEMON  TO  LONDON  PUNCH. J 

You  lay  a wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln’s  bier. 

You,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to  trace, 
Broad  for  the  self-complacent  British  sneer., 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed  face. 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  bristling 
hair, 

His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 

His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please ; 

You,  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the  pencil’s  laugh. 
Judging  each  step  as  though  the  way  were  plain ; 
Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph 
Of  chief’s  perplexity,  or  people’s  pain  : 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding-sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 
Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet, 

Say,  scurrile  jester,  is  there  room  for  you  ? 

Yes!  He  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my  sneer. 
To  lame  my  pencil,  and  confute  my  pen ; 

To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 

This  rail-splitter  a true-born  king  of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I had  learned  to  rue, 
Noting  how  to  occasion’s  height  he  rose  ; 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem  more 
true ; 

How  iron-like  his  temper  grew  by  blows. 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful,  he  could  be; 

How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill,  the  same ; 

I34 


Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work — such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head,  and  heart,  and  hand  — 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there’s  a task  to  do ; 
Man’s  honest  will  must  heaven’s  good  grace 
command ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden 
grow, 

That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  his  will, 

If  but.  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 

Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good  and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 

That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty’s  and  Right’s, 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 

His  warfare  with  rude  Nature’s  thwarting 
mights — 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 

The  iron  bark,  that  turns  the  lumberer’s  axe, 
The  rapid  that  o’erbears  the  boatman’s  toil ; 

The  prairie  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer’s  tracks. 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling  bear; 
Such  were  the  deeds  that  helped  his  youth  to 
train ; 

Rousrh  culture — but  such  trees  large  fruit  may 
bear, 

If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up  a destined  work  to  do, 

And  lived  to  do  it.  Four  long-suffering  years’ 
Ill-fate,  ill  feeling,  ill-report  lived  through, 

And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  changed  to  cheers, 


The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 

And  took  both  with  the  same  unwavering  mood; 

Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling  days 
And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from  where  he 
stood, 

A felon  hand  between  the  goal  and  him, 

Reached  from  behind  his  back,  a trigger  prest — 

And  those  perplexed  and  patient  eyes  were  dim, 
Those  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were  laid  to 
rest! 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen, 

When  the  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame. 

Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last  beat  high ; 
Sad  life  cut  short,  just  as  its  triumph  Came. 

A deed  accurst!  Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
By  the  assassin’s  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore ; 

But  thy  foul  crime  like  Cain’s,  stands  darkly  out. 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a strife, 

Whate’er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly  striven; 

And  with  the  martyr’s  crown  crownest  a life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  forgiven. 


136 


1 


IDYL  OF  A PUBLIC  SCHOOL. 

Ram  it  it  in,  cram  it  in — 

Children’s  heads  are  hollow  ; 

Slam  it  in,  jam  it  in — 

Still  there’s  more  to  follow  ; 

Hygiene  and  history, 

Astronomic  mystery, 

Botany,  geometry, 

Greek,  and  trigonometry — 

Ram  it  in,  cram  it  in, 

Children’s  heads  are  hollow. 

Rap  it  in,  tap  it  in — 

What  are  teachers  paid  for  ? 

Bang  it  in,  slap  it  in — 

\Vhat  are  children  made  for  ? 


Ancient  archaeology, 

Aryan  philology, 

Calculus  and  mathematics, 

Rhetoric  and  hydrostatics — 

Hoax  it  in,  coax  it  in, 

Children’s  heads  are  hollow. 

Scold  it  in,  mould  it  in, 

All  that  they  can  swallow  ; 

Fold  it  in,  hold  it  in, 

Still  there’s  more  to  follow  ; 

Faces  pinched,  and  sad  and  pale, 

Tell  the  same  undying  tale — 

Tell  of  moments  robbed  from  sleep, 

Meals  untasted,  studies  deep. 

Those  who’ve  passed  the  furnace  through, 
With  aching  brow  will  tell  to  you 
How  the  teacher  crammed  it  in, 

Rammed  it  in,  jammed  it  in, 

Rubbed  it  in,  clubbed  it  in, 


137 


MATERNITY. 

E.  HARRIET  HOWE. 

God  gave  me  children,  so  He  fed,  in  part, 

The  quenchless  longings  of  a loving  heart  ; 

And  taught  me  how  to  love,  and  He  doth  choose 
My  loved  for  me,  and  so  I never  lose  ; 

And,  for  my  children,  O what  love  divine 
This  dear  pre-natal  pledge,  “ They  shall  be  mine  ! 
Thrilling  my  soul  with  life  inspiring  flame  ; 

Twin  born  with  Love,  so  all  my  children  came. 
When  near  my  heart  their  first  faint  pulses  beat, 

It  seemed  an  angel  spoke  a secret  sweet, 

With  a strange  meaning  other  words  above 
To  fit  my  girlish  heart  for  mother  love  ; 

Trembling  at  thought  of  life’s  great  mystery 
My  timid  soul  His  way  alone  would  see  : 

Alone,  and  kneeling  in  the  twilight  dim, 

The  asked  of  God,  I gave  again  to  Him. 

I even  dared  to  pray,  so  bold  I grew, 

That  He  would  keep  me  to  my  trust  as  true, 

As  His  own  Virgin  Mother  when  she  bare, 

The  Incarnate  Life  beneath  her  bosom  fair  ; 

And  often  through  those  waiting  days  there  came, 
Dear  thoughts  of  Him  who  bore  the  sweetest  name,. 
Who  made  for  us  the  badge  of  motherhood — 

The  deepest  sorrow,  and  the  highest  good. 

I leaned  by  day  upon  His  promise  strong, 

And  heard  by  night  the  angels’  cradle  song. 

And  looking  ever  in  His  tender  face, 

Could  say,  “ Thou  knowest  it  is  all  of  grace  ! ” 

So,  in  the  promise  of  His  love  I rest, 

Since  faith  will  always  say,  “ He  knoweth  best.  ” 
And  trust  my  flock  shall  gathered  be  at  last, 

Safe  in  the  fold  above,  when  life  is  past. 

138 


If 


LAUNCH  OF  THE  SHIP. 

r 

HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

{Abridged!) 

All  is  finished,  and  at  length  has  come  the  bridal 
day  of  beauty  and  of  strength  ! To-day  the  vessel 
shall  be  launched  ! with  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is 
blanched  ; and  o’er  the  bay,  slowly,  in  all  his  splen- 
dors dight,  the  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 
The  ocean  old,  centuries  old,  strong  as  youth  and 
as  uncontrolled,  paces  restless  to  and  fro,  up  and 
down  the  sands  of  gold.  His  beating  heart  is  not 
at  rest;  and,  far  and  wide,  with  ceaseless  flow,  his 
beard  of  snow  heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his 
breast.  He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride.  There 
she  stands,  with  her  foot  upon  the  sands,  decked 
with  flags  and  streamers  gay,  in  honor  of  her  mar- 
riage day ; her  snow-white  signals,  fluttering, 
blending,  round  her  like  a veil  descending,  ready 
to  be  the  bride  of  the  gray  old  sea. 

Then  the  master,  with  a gesture  of  command, 
waved  his  hand  ; and  at  the  word,  loud  and  sudden 
there  was  heard,  all  around  them  and  below,  the 
sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow,  knocking 
away  the  shores  and  spurs.  And  see  ! she  stirs ! 
she  starts  ! she  moves  ! she  seems  to  feel  the  thrill 
of  life  along  her  keel ! and,  spurning  with  her  foot 
the  ground,  with  one  exulting,  joyous  bound,  she 
leaps  into  the  ocean’s  arms,  And  lo ! from  the  as- 
sembled crowd  there  rose  a shout  prolonged  and 
loud,  that  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say,  “ Take  her, 
O bridegroom  old  and  gray  ! take  her  to  thy  pro- 
tecting arms,  with  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms!” 
Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O ship ! Through  wind 
and  wave,  right  onward  steer ; the  moistened  eye, 

141 


the  trembling  lip  are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or 

fe  Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O Sh.p  of  State  ! sail  on , 0 
Union,  strong  and  great ! Humanity,  with  all  its 
fears  with  all  its  hdpes  of  future  years  is  hanging 
breathTess  on  thy  faFte!  We  .know  what  Master 
laid  thy  keel,  what  workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  ot 
steel  who  made  each  mast  and  sqil  and  rope,  what 
anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat,  in  what  a forge, 
and*  what^a  heat,  were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy 
hope!  Fear  not  each  sudden  s?u.nd  and  shock, 
’tisP of  the  wave,  and  not  the  rock ; Us  but  the  flap, 
ping  of  the  sail,  and  not  a rent  made  by  the  gale 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest  roar,  in  spite  of  false 
lights  on  the  shore,  sail  on ! nor  fear  to  brjast  the 
sea ; our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee . Our 
hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears,  our  faith 
triumphant  o'er  our  fears,  are  all  with  thee . are  all 
with  thee ! 

THE  TIN  BUCKET  AND  THE  WILLOW 
oacmvc-T  RRIfiADF. 


Have  you  seen  as  I have  seen  in  the  early  morning 
gray 

Ere  the  sunbeams  riped  the  mountain  tops, 

The  workman  on  his  way, 

To  his  busy  scenes  of  labor,  with  trowel,  or  with 
spade? 

He’s  one  of  Heaven’s  nobility,  and  belongs  to  the 
brigade. 


While  the  merchant  in  his  palace,  in  dreams  gloats 
o’er  his  gold, 

While  the  loafer  in  the  market  house,  lies  slumber- 
ing  in  the  cold, 


142 


Our  hero  with  his  bucket  bright,  goes  whistling  to 
his  trade. 

God  bless  him  ! and  all  the  noble  men  who  belong 
to  the  brigade. 

Then  in  the  early  morning  gray,  when  laggards  lie 
in  bed, 

The  maid  with  basket  on  her  arm,  goes  forth  to 
earn  her  bread ; 

Her  modest  mein  commands  respect,  though  in 
calico  arrayed, 

What  a noble  wife  she’ll  make  for  him  who  belongs 
to  the  brigade. 

God  bless  the  honest  sons  of  toil  who  with  the  lark 
arise,  [skies; 

And  hasten  to  their  labor,  ere  the  sun  illume  the 

God  bless  the  modest  maidens  all,  who  ply  their 
daily  trade, 

If  I were  hunting  for  a wife,  it  would  be  in  this 
brigade. 


43 


BABY  AND  I. 

ELIZABERH  B.  BOHAN. 


We’re  sailing  to  dreamland — baby  and  I, 
Our  boat  is  nearing  the  shore  ; 

His  head  is  at  rest  on  my  loving  breast, 

We  list  to  the  dipping  oar. 

Shall  we  land  together 
In  the  dreamland  heather, 

O baby,  with  soft  eyes  of  blue  ? 

Shall  we  roam  the  meadows 
And  play  with  the  shadows  ? 

Sleep  darling,  I’m  waiting  for  you. 

We’re  sailing  to  dreamland — baby  and  I, 
How  white  are  the  dreamland  sheep, 

How  purple  the  hills,  how  blue  are  the  rills  ! 
O,  hasten,  my  darling  to  sleep. 

The  birds — how  delightful, 

O,  sleep,  a whole  nightful, 

They  want  you — the  birds  and  the  flowers, 
And  the  gay  bntterflies 
They  will  dazzle  your  eyes 
When  you  enter  the  dreamland  bowers. 

We’re  sailing  to  dreamland — baby  and  I, 

O,  cool  and  calm  is  the  night  ; 

His  rosy  lips  coo,  his  breath,  sweetest  dew, 
Fills  my  heart  with  love  and  light, 

O,  soft  is  the  pillow, 

And  playful  the  billow 
That  rocks  us  to  dreamland,  my  own. 

Are  little  feet  ready  ? 

Then  steady — there — steady, 

Thy  mother  must  still  land  alone. 

144 


BESSIE’S  CHRISTMAS  EVE  LARK. 

GERTRUDE  MANLY  JONES. 

Sweet  Bessie  Bronner,  an  heiress,  and  pet, 

The  pride  of  her  home,  and  the  queen  of  her  set, 

Has  a frown  on  her  face,  and  is  restless,  and  vexed, 
At  the  hold  on  her  mind,  of  one  troublesome  text, 
And  impatient,  she  peers  through  the  big  window 
pane 

In  the  deepening  dusk,  as  she  murmurs  again  : 

“ ‘ Inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  not  ’ — pshaw,  what  have  I 
To  do  with  ‘ these  little  ones,  ’ of  the  Most  High  ! 

“ Perhaps,  ” still  she  muses,  “ some  poor  little  one 
Dreams  to-night  of  a Santa,  who  never  will  come  ; 
What  a lark  it  would  be — if  I only  did  dare  ” — 

Here  her  eyes  flash  as  bright  as  the  gems  in  her  hair, 
As  with  quick  resolution  she  rings  for  old  Jim, 

The  tried,  faithful  footman,  the  slave  of  her  whim. 

“ Order  the  carriage,  Jim,  please,  right  away  ; 

Not  one  word  of  this,  to  any  one  say  ; 

“ Get  ready  to  follow  me  ; for  you  alone, 

Shall  be  for  one  evening,  my  sole  chaperon.” 

147 


Then  upstairs  she  runs,  for  her  purse  and  her  toque. 
Over  her  evening  dress,  draws  a warm  cloak, 

And  then,  to  the  “ swell,  ” who  later  should  call 
To  accompany  her  to  a holiday  ball, 

A very  short  note  does  she  hastily  pen  : 

“ Shall  be  ready  to  fill  my  engagement  at  ten.” 

Then  down  to  the  city,  through  gay,  brilliant  streets. 
Where  her  carriage  is  crammed  with  toys  and 
sweets. 

“ Now,  to  Rag  Muffin  Quarter  ; ” and  old  Jim,  aghast. 
Protesting  in  vain,  gives  the  order  at  last. 

Our  Bessie  alights  from  her  coach  in  the  dark, 

Her  heart  beating  fast,  at  her  venturesome  lark, 

And,  followed  by  Jim  with  his  arms  full  of  toys, 

She  climbs  an  old  stair,  guided  up  by  the  noise. 

Tossing  her  cloak  and  cap  on  the  floor, 

She  timidly  knocks  at  a half  opened  door, 

Then  enters  the  room  ill-lighted  and  bare, 

Appalled  at  the  squalor,  and  poverty  there  ; 

A half  dozen  children  in  silent  surprise, 

Stare  at  the  lady,  with  wondering  eyes. 

Who  was  this  creature  in  shimmering  silk, 

With  glittering  jewels,  and  skin  white  as  milk  ? 

Their  rapt  admiration  brings  smiles  to  her  face, 

And  she  says — with  a courtesy  of  old-fashioned 
grace — 

« I am  Santa  Claus’  wife,  and  it’s  now  Christmas 
time : 


148 


Please  accept  these  few  toys  with  his  love  and  mine.” 
Like  the  flash  of  a meteor,  brilliant,  and  queer, 

To  dazzle  a moment,  and  then  disappear, 

From  one  room  to  another  speeds  light-hearted  Bess 
With  her  quaint  little  bow  and  startling  address, 

Quick  followed  by  laughter  and  shrieks  of  delight 
As  the  dolls,  guns  and  wagons  are  dragged  into 
sight. 

The  last  door  is  opened,  and  wond’ring  Bess  stands 
With  her  gay  greeting  checked,  and  with  close 
clasping  hands. 

On  a cot  in  the  corner,  a wretched  boy  lies, 

With  fever-flushed  face,  and  with  wild,  restless  eyes. 
Beside  him,  a little  girl,  haggard  and  old, 

In  the  dim  candle  light  ; and  the  room  was  so  cold. 

Then  a voice  broke  the  silence  with  pitiful  ring  : 

“ Oh,  you  are  an  angel,  and  so  you  can  sing  ! 

For  two  days  and  nights,  Bennie’s  raved  and  he’s 
cried 

For  the  song  that  our  mother  sung  ’way  ’fore  she 
died. 

‘Jesus  lover’ — he  mutters,  all  day  and  night, 

And  he  begs  me  to  sing  ; and  I’ve  tried  with  my 
might, 

Bat  I can’t  sing,  for  hunger,  and  pain  in  my  head  ; 
And  he  won’t  go  to  sleep ; Oh,  I wish  we  were  dead  !” 

With  a heart  that  was  aching,  and  eyes  that  were 
dim, 


H9 


Our  Bess  began  singing  the  old  gospel  hymn  : 

“ Jesus  lover” — in  beauty,  the  youthful  voice  rang, 
And  the  lad  watched,  intently,  her  face  while  she 
sang. 

Rough  women  and  children  out  of  the  rooms  pour, 
And  gather  in  silence,  about  Bennie’s  door  ; 

And  hard-looking  men  from  below  leave  their  beer, 
And  stand  around,  wondering,  such  music  to  hear. 

Perchance,  some  sin-burdened  bosom  is  wrung, 

As  once  more  they  hear  it,  “ the  song  mother  sung.  ” 
The  old  hymn  is  ended  in  silence  most  deep, 

For  poor  restless  Bennie  had  fallen  asleep. 

To  the  child,  Bessie  whispered,  “ Here’s  money  my 
dear, 

For  food  and  for  fire,  and  holiday  cheer  ; 

My  doctor — please  God — shall  save  Bennie’s  life  ; 
Good-bye  ; don’t  forget  me — old  Santa  Claus’  wife. — 

And  the  girl,  all  unconscious  of  danger  or  harm, 
With  a fortune  in  gems  on  her  white  neck  and  arm, 
Smiled  up  at  her  audience  sweetly,  and  bowed, 

As  she  passed  safely  out  through  the  grim,  silent 
crowd. 

Bessie  Bronner  then  went  to  her  holiday  ball, 

And  found  there  the  lights,  flowers,  music  and  all  ; 
She  was  danced,  wined,  and  flattered,  and  into  her 
ear, 

Was  whispered  soft  nonsense  she  never  did  hear, 
For  the  whole  thing  seemed  vapid,  insipid  and  mean, 

*5° 


And  her  mind  wandered  off  to  a different  scene. 

* * * * * 

In  the  tenement  house  to  this  day  are  still  rife, 

Strange  stories  of  Santa  Claus’  beautiful  wife  : 

And  the  gay  swells  of  fashion  are  puzzling  yet, 

What  lost  them  the  queen  of  their  rollicking  set : 

For  one  taste  of  unselfishness,  spoiled  the  gay  girl, 
For  Fashion’s  caprices,  and  Revelry’s  whirl, 

On  that  bright  Christmas  eve,  in  a Santa  Claus  role, 
The  butterfly  girl  found  a woman’s  sweet  soul. 
Dalton,  Ga. 


IS  IT  RIGHT? 


■“  It  is  nothing  to  me,”  the  beauty  said, 

With  a careless  toss  of  her  pretty  head; 

“ The  man  is  weak  if  he  can’t  refrain 
From  the  cup  they  say  is  fraught  with  pain.” 

But  it  was  something  to  her  in  after  years 
When  her  eyes  were  drenched  with  burning  tears, 
And  she  watched  in  lonely  grief  and  dread 
And  started  to  hear  a staggering  tread. 

“ It  is  nothing  to  me,”  the  merchant  said, 

As  over  his  ledger  he  bent  his  head; 

“ I am  busy  to-day  with  tare  and  tret 
And  have  no  time  to  fume  and  fret.” 

But  it  was  something  to  him  when  over  the  wire 
A message  came  from  a funeral  pyre, 

A drunken  conductor  had  wrecked  a train, 

And  his  wife  and  child  were  among  the  slain. 

“ It  is  nothing  to  me,”  the  mother  said, 

“ I have  no  fear  that  my  boy  will  tread 
The  downward  path  of  sin  and  shame 
And  crush  my  heart,  and  darken  his  name.” 

But  ’twas  something  to  her  when  that  only  son 
From  the  path  of  right  was  early  won, 

And  madly  cast  in  the  flowing  bowl, 

A ruined  body  and  sin-wrecked  soul. 


152 


« It  is  nothing  to  me,”  the  young  man  cried, 

In  his  eye  was  a flash  of  scorn  and  pride, 

“ I heea  not  the  dreadful  tales  ye  tell, 

I can  rule  myself,  I know  full  well.” 

But  ’twas  something  to  him  when  in  prison  he  lay 
A victim  to  drink,  life  ebbing  away, 

He  thought  of  his  wretched  child  and  wife 
And  the  mournful  wreck  of  his  wasted  life. 

“ It  is  nothing  to  me,”  the  voter  said, 

« The  party’s  loss  is  my  geatest  dread 
So  he  gave  his  vote  for  the  liquor  trade, 

Though  hearts  were  crushed  and  drunkards  made. 
But  ’twas  something  to  him  in  after  life, 

When  his  daughter  became  a drunkard’s  wife, 
And  her  hungry  children  cried  for  bread 
And  shuddered  to  hear  their  father’s  tread. 

Is  it  nothing  for  us  to  idly  sleep, 

While  the  cohorts  of  death  their  vigils  keep, 

To  gather  the  young  and  thoughtless  in 
And  grind  in  our  midst  a grist  of  sin? 

Is  it  nothing — yes,  all  for  us  to  stand 
And  clasp  by  faith  our  Saviour’s  hand, 

And  learn  to  labor,  live  and  fight 
For  truth  and  justice  and  the  right. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  BIRDS. 

E.  C.  STEDMAN. 


Whither  away,  Robin, 

Whither  away  ? 

Is  it  through  envy  of  the  maple  leaf, 

Whose  blushes  mock  the  crimson  of  thy  breast. 
Thou  wilt  not  stay  ? 

The  summer  days  were  long,  yet  all  too  brief 
The  happy  season  thou  hast  been  our  guest ; 
Whither  away  ? 

Whither  away,  Blue-bird, 

Whither  away  ? 

The  blast  is  chill,  yet  in  the  upper  sky 
Thou  still  canst  find  the  color  of  thy  wing, 

The  hue  of  May. 

Warbler,  why  speed  thy  southern  flight?  ah,  why, 
Thou  too,  whose  song  first  told  us  of  the  Spring  ? 
Whither  away  ? 

Whither  away,  Swallow, 

Whither  away  ? 

Canst  thou  no  longer  tarry  in  the  North, 

Here,  where  our  roof  so  well  hath  screened 
thy  nest — 

Not  one  short  day  ? 

Wilt  thou — as  if  thou  human  wert — go  forth 
And  wanton  far  from  those  who  love  thee  best? 
Whither  away  ? 


CLEAR  THE  WAY. 

Men  of  thought,  be  up  and  stirring  night  and 
day, 

156 


Sow  the  seed — withdraw  the  curtain,  clear  the 
way  ! 

Men  of  action,  aid  and  cheer  them  as  ye  may. 
There’s  a fount  about  to  stream, 

There’s  a light  about  to  beam, 

There’s  a warmth  about  to  glow, 

There’s  a flower  about  to  blow, 

There’s  a midnight  blackness  changing  into  gray, 
Men  of  thought,  and  men  of  action,  clear  the  way. 
Once  the  welcome  light  was  broken,  who  shall 
say 

What  the  unimagined  glories  of  the  day  ? 

What  the  evil  that  shall  perish  in  its  ray  ? 

Aid  the  dawning  tongue  and  pen, 

Aid  it  hopes  of  honest  men. 

Aid  it  paper — aid  it  type, 

Aid  it  for  the  hour  is  ripe, 

And  our  earnest  must  not  slacken  into  play. 
Men  of  thought,  and  men  of  action,  clear  the  way ! 
Lo  ! a cloud  about  to  vanish  from  the  day 
And  a brazen  wrong  crumble  into  clay. 

Lo  ! the  right’s  about  to  conquer,  clear  the  way ! 
With  the  right  shall  many  more 
Enter  smiling  at  the  door  ; 

With  the  giant  wrong  shall  fall 
Many  others,  great  and  small, 

That  for  ages  long  have  held  us  for  their  prey, 
Men  of  thought,  and  men  of  action,  clear  the  way ! 

SCOTT  AND  THE  VETERAN. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

An  old  crippled  veteran  to  the  War  Department 
came,  of  fame — 

He  sought  the  Chief  who  led  him  on  many  a field 

TS7 


8 


The  Chief  who  shouted  “ Forward!  ” where’er  his 
banner  rose, 

And  bore  its  stars  in  triumph  behind  the  flying  foes. 

“ Have  you  forgotten,  General,”  the  battered  sol- 
dier cried, 

“ The  days  of  eighteen  hundred  twelve,  when  1 
was  at  your  side  ? 

Have  you  forgotten  Johnson,  who  fought  at  Lun- 
dy’s Lane  ? 

’Tis  true  I’m  old  and  pensioned,  but  I want  to 
fight  again.” 

“ Have  I forgotten?”  said  the  Chief;  “ my  brave 
old  soldier,  no ! 

And  here’s  the  hand  I gave  you  then,  and  let  it  tell 
you  so ; 

But  you  have  done  your  share,  my  friend  ; you’re 
crippled,  old,  and  gray, 

And  we  have  need  of  younger  arms  and  fresher 
blood  to-day." 

“ But  General,”  cried  the  veteran,  a flush  upon  his 
brow, 

« The  very  men  who  fought  with  us,  they  say,  are 
-aitors  now ! 

They  torn  the  flag  of  Lundy’s  Lane,  our  old  red, 
white  and  blue, 

And  while  a drop  of  blood  is  left,  I’ll  show  that 
drop  is  true. 

“ I’m  not  so  weak  but  T can  strike,  and  I’ve  a good 
old  gun, 

To  get  the  range  of  traitors’  hearts,  and  prick  them, 
one  by  one. 

Your  Minie  rifles  and  such  arms,  it  ain’t  worth 
while  to  try ; 

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I couldn't  get  the  hang  'o  them,  but  I’ll  keep  my 
powder  dry  !” 

“ God  bless  you,  comrade  !”  said  the  Chief, — “ God 
bless  your  loyal  heart ! 

But  younger  men  are  in  the  field,  and  claim  to 
have  a part ; 

They’ll  plant  our  sacred  banner  firm,  in  each  re- 
bellious town, 

And  woe,  henceforth,  to  any  hand  that  dares  to 
pull  it  down !” 

“ But,  General !” — still  persisting,  the  weeping  vet- 
eran cried, 

“ I’m  young  enough  to  follow,  so  long  as  you’re 
my  guide  ; 

And  some  you  know,  must  bite  the  dust,  and  that, 
at  least,  can  I ; 

So  give  the  young  ones  place  to  fight,  but  me  a 
place  to  die ! 

“If  they  should  fire  on  Pickens,  let  the  colonel  in 
command 

Put  me  upon  the  rampart  with  the  flag-staff  in  my 
hand : 

No  odds  how  hot  the  cannon-smoke,  or  how  the 
shell  may  fly, 

I’ll  hold  the  Stars  and  Stripes  aloft,  and  hold  them 
till  I die ! 

“ I’m  ready,  General,  so  you  let  a post  to  me  be 
given, 

Where  Washington  can  look  at  me,  as  he  looks 
down  from  heaven, 

And  say  to  Putnam  at  his  side,  or,  may  be,  Gen- 
eral Wayne, — [Lundy’s  Lane!’ 

‘There  stands  old  Billy  Johnson,  who  fought  at 

I59 


“ And  when  the  fight  is  raging  hot,  before  the 
traitors  fly, 

When  shell  and  ball  are  screeching,  and  bursting 
in  the  sky, 

If  any  shot  should  pierce  through  me,  and  lay  me 
on  my  face, 

My  soul  would  go  to  Washington’s,  and  not  to 
Arnold’s  place !” 


DISCONTENT. 

Down  in  the  fields  one  day  in  June, 

The  flowers  all  bloomed  together, 

Save  one  who  thought  to  hide  herself — 
And  drooped,  that  pleasant  weather. 

A robin,  who  had  soared  too  high, 

And  felt  a little  lazy, 

Was  resting  near  a buttercup, 

Who  wished  she  was  a daisy. 

The  buttercups  must  always  be 
The  same  all-tiresome  color, 

While  daisies  dress  in  gold  and  white 
Altho’  their  gold  is  duller  ! 

“ Dear  Robin,”  said  this  sad  young  flower, 
“ Perhaps  you  won’t  mind  trying 
To  find  a nice  white  frill  for  me 
Some  day  when  you  are  flying.” 

160 


“You  silly  thing,"  the  robin  said, 

“ l think  you  must  be  crazy  ; 

I’d  rather  be  my  honest  self, 

Than  any  maae-up  daisy. 

“You’re  nicer  in  your  own  bright  gown; 

The  little  children  love  you  ; 

Be  the  best  buttercup  you  can, 

And  think  no  flower  above  you. 

“ Tho’  swallows  leave  us  out  of  sight, 

We’d  better  keep  our  places  ; 

Perhaps  the  world  would  go  all  wrong 
With  one  too  many  daisies!” 

GOOD-NIGHT  AND  GOOD-MORNING. 

LORD  HOUGHTON. 

A fair  little  girl  sat  under  a tree, 

Sewing,  as  long  as  her  eyes  could  see ; 

Then  she  smoothed  her  work  and  folded  it  right, 
And  said,  “ Dear  work,  good-night,  good-night! 

Such  a number  of  rooks  flew  over  her  head, 
Crying,  “ Caw  ! caw  !”  on  their  way  to  bed  ; 

She  said,  as  she  watched  their  curious  flight,^ 

“ Little  black  things,  good-night,  good-night !” 

The  horses  neighed,  and  the  oxen  lowed, 

The  sheep’s  bleat ! bleat ! came  over  the  road, 

All  seeming  to  say,  with  a quiet  delight, 

“ Good  little  girl,  good-night,  good-night !” 

She  did  riot  say  to  the  sun,  “ Good-night !” 
Though  she  saw  him  there  like  a ball  of  light 
For  she  knew  he  had  God’s  time  to  keep 
All  over  the  world,  and  never  could  sleep. 

163 


The  tall  pine  fox-glove  bowed  his  head, 

The  violets  curtsied  and  went  to  bed  ; 

And  good  little  Lucy  tied  up  her  hair, 

And  said,  on  her  knees,  her  favorite  prayer. 

And,  while  on  her  pillow  she  softly  lay, 

She  knew  nothing  more,  till  again  it  was  day  ; 

And  all  things  said  to  the  beautiful  sun, 

“ Good-morning  ! good-morning ! our  work  is  be- 
gun !” 

WHERE  THE  GYPSIES  GO. 

BY  MRS.  S.-  M.  B.  PIATT. 

“ Mamma,  the  sun  went  down  too  soon  ; ^ 

There  are  more  things  I want  to  hear.” 

« Look  through  the  window.  There’s  the  moon, 
This  is  the  time  to  dream,  I fear.” 

“ But  tell  me  where  the  gypsies  go 
When  there  is  snow.” 

“ I’ve  told  you  all  I know.”  “ But  it 
Is  ever  so  little  ! Tell  me  all 
That  other  people  know.”  “ Come,  sit 
Here  in  the  shelter  of  my  shawl, 

And  let’s  guess  where  the  gypsies  go 
When  there’s  snow.” 

“ I cannot  guess.”  “ Then  how  can  I ? 

I only  know  they  vanish  quite 
When  the  dark  leaves  go  blowing  by,  ? 

Somewhere,  or  somewhere,  out  of  sigh’.' 

“ But  tell  me  where  the  gypsies  go 
When  there  is  snow.” 

“ My  child,  these  gypsies  seem  to  me 
Brown,  grown  up  fairies,  that  belong 
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Only  to  summer.  It  may  be 
They  die  out  to  some  bird’s  last  song 
“ Please  tell  me  where  the  gypsies  go 
When  there  is  snow.” 

“ Well,  there  are  barns  with  clover  hay, 

And  lonesome  lofts,  where  mice  may  creep ; 

For  all  I know,  the  gypsies  may 
Go — just  where  you  should  go — to  sleep. 

To  sleep — that’s  where  the  gypsies  go 
When  there  is  snow.” 

WHAT  SANTA  CLAUS  THINKS. 

Hi ! another  one ! What’s  the  world  about  ? 

Don’t  these  people  know  that  I am  most  worn 
out  ? 

Millions  of  ’em  coming  year  by  year  ; 

Every  youngster  wretched  if  I don’t  appear. 

First  they  want  a rattle,  then  a ring  to  bite; 

Then  a box  of  sugar  plums,  then  a doll  or  kite ; 
Next  a story  book  to  read,  then  a bat  and  ball, 
Santa’s  back  is  broad  and  strong,  he  must  bring 
them  all. 

Gratitude  they  talk  about ; not  a bit  for  me. 

First  you  know  they  get  so  wise,  cry  out  “ Fiddle- 
de-de£.” 

No  such  chap  as  Santa  Claus,  can’t  deceive  us  so. 
Never  find  a six  inch  sock  hanging  in  the  row. 

Here’s  this  jolly  little  chap,  scarcely  here  a week. 
Don’t  I know  he  rules  the  house,  though  he  looks 
so  meek  ? [too, 

Both  his  eyelids  shut  up  tight,  mouth  wide  open, 
S’pose  he  got  a look  at  me,  wonder  what  he’d  do? 

165 


Sleep  away  my  little  man,  trouble  comes  with  years, 
You  are  bound  to  get  your  share  in  this  vale  of  tears. 
Rattle,  is  it?  Well,  all  right!  Yes,  I’ve  got  my  pen, 
Finish  out  your  precious  nap,  and  I’ll  be  round  again. 


MY  MERCIES. 

I’m  summin’  up  my  mercies,  Bess, 
That’s  come  to  me  this  year, 

How  much  I have  to  thank  Him  for, 
How  little  cause  to  fear. 

Now  first  an’  foremost  in  the  start, 

My  faith  was  rather  lean ; 

I tried  to  stand  in  my  own  strength, 

An’  then  my  heart  wa’nt  clean. 

I tried  to  put  myself  to  rights 
By  doin’  of  good  works, 

Just  like  the  old  Crusaders  did, 

Who  went  to  fight  the  Turks. 

I tried  to  make  myself  believe 
That  I was  doin’  right; 

So  every  mornin’  charged  myself, 

An’  credit  give  each  night. 

I kep’  my  book,  the  Lord  kep’  His, 

Till  a’ter  a while  you  see, 

The  Lord,  He  showed  me  His  account, 
I found  they  didn’t  agree. 

I found  the  cred’ts  I’d  give  myself, 

He’d  charged  the  same  to  me, 

Makin’  me  owe  Him  twice  as  much 
’S  ever  I thought ’t  would  be. 

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of  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


But  the  parson  set  me  thinkin’; 

He  preached  from  where  it  saith, 

(The  word  was  full  of  spirit,) 

“ By  grace  ye’re  saved  through  faith. 

He  said,  “)rou  must  b’lieve  wi’  the  doin’ 
Though  slow  to  grasp  the  word, 

I’d  made  a mistake  an’  knew  it, 

So  brought  my  case  t’  the  Lord. 

I've  since  been  givin’  an’  doin’, 

The  best  year  of  my  life, 

I live  at  peace  with  my  Maker, 

He  keeps  me  from  all  strife. 

My  barns  have  increased  with  plenty, 
I’ve  lost  no  cows  nor  sheep; 

I’m  trustin’  Him,  the  Good  Shepherd, 
Who  watches  while  we  sleep. 

I’ve  had  more  to  give  the  Lord,  Bess, 
Than  e’er  I had  before; 

But  I first  had  to  give  myself — 

I wish  it  had  been  more. 

He  gave  me  husband  an’  children, 

My  home,  all  I possess; 

All  He  asks  in  return  for  it — 

. A heart  full  o’  thankfulness. 

Now,  Bess,  the  children  are  sleepin’. 

An’  all  the  stock  is  fed; 

Perhaps ’t  will  be  doin’  us  justice, 

If  we  should  go  to  bed. 

Altho’  I’m  not  rich  like  some  folks, 

I’m  happy  all  the  day; 

The  Lord  is  so  rich  in  mercy — 

Dear  Bess,  let’s  kneel  an’  pray. 

169 


MEN  WANTED. 

Men  wanted.  Men  who  are  honest  and  pure. 
Men  who  are  wholesome  and  truthful.  Men  who 
will  not  be  bribed.  Men  who  are  sound  to  the 
heart’s  core. 

Yes,  men  are  wanted.  Men  who  are  unwilling 
to  eat  the  bread  of  idleness.  Men  who  will  scorn 
to  wear  what  they  have  not  honestly  paid  for. 
Men  who  know  what  ought  to  be  done  and  will  do 
it.  Men  who  will  give  good  counsel,  who  will  set 
a good  example,  who  will  sympathize  with  the 
grieving,  and  succor  the  distressed.  Men  who  will 
scorn  to  do  a base  thing  even  for  a friend.  Men 
who  know  how  to  obey  before  they  undertake  to 
command.  Men  who  do  more  than  they  talk.  Men 
who  do  good  to  their  friends  to  keep  them,  to  their 
enemies  to  gain  them.  Men  who  believe  in  syste- 
matic giving,  and  advocate  it.  Men  whose  hearts 
are  moved  by  the  sadness  of  others,  who  are  touched 
by  a hungry  face,  and  cold,  bare  feet. 

Yes,  indeed,  men  are  wanted.  Men  who  are 
brave  and  tender,  who  are  not  ashamed  to  wipe 
tears  away.  Men  whose  acts  will  bring  smiles  to 
wan  faces.  Men  who  hush  lamentations  and  are 
rewarded  with  sweet  songs  of  thanksgiving. 

THE  LUCKY  HORSESHOE. 

JAMES  T.  FIELDS. 

A farmer  traveling  with  his  load 
Picked  up  a horseshoe  in  the  road, 

And  nailed  it  fast  to  his  barn-door, 

That  Luck  might  down  upon  him  pour ; 

That  every  blessing  known  in  life 
170 


Might  crown  his  household  and  his  wife, 
And  never  any  kind  of  harm 
Descend  upon  his  growing  farm. 

But  dire  ill-fortune  soon  began 
To  visit  the  astonished  man, 

His  hens  declined  to  lay  their  eggs ; 

His  bacon  tumbled  from  the  pegs, 

And  rats  devoured  the  fallen  legs  ; 

His  corn,  that  never  failed  before, 
Mildewed  and  rotted  on  the  floor; 

His  grass  refused  to  end  in  hay ; 

His  cattle  died,  or  went  astray  ; 

In  short,  all  moved  the  crooked  way 

Next  spring  a great  drouth  baked  the  sod, 
And  roasted  every  pea  in  pod  ; 

The  beans  declared  they  could  not  grow 
So  long  as  nature  acted  so ; 

Redundant  insects  reared  their  brood 
To  starve  for  lack  of  juicy  food  ; 

The  staves  from  barrel  sides  went  off 
As  if  they  had  the  whooping-cough, 

And  nothing  of  the  useful  kind 
To  hold  together  felt  inclined; 

In  short,  it  was  no  use  to  try 
While  all  the  land  was  in  a fry. 

One  morn,  demoralized  with  grief, 

The  farmer  clamored  for  relief  ; 

And  prayed  right  hard  to  understand 
What  witchcraft  now  possessed  his  land ; 
Why  house  and  farm  in  misery  grew 
Since  he  nailed  up  that  “ lucky”  shoe. 

While  thus  dismayed  o’er  matters  wrong 
An  old  man  chanced  to  trudge  along, 


To  whom  he  told,  with  wormwood  tears, 
How  his  affairs  were  in  arrears, 

And  what  a desperate  state  of  things 
A picked-up  horseshoe  sometimes  brings. 

The  stranger  asked  to  see  the  shoe, 

The  farmer  brought  it  into  view, 

But  when  the  old  man  raised  his  head, 
He  laughed  outright  and  quickly  said, 

“ No  wonder  skies  upon  you  frown — 
You’ve  nailed  the  horseshoe  upside  down 
Just  turn  it  round,  and  soon  you’ll  see 
How  you  and  Fortune  will  agree.” 

The  farmer  turned  the  horseshoe  round, 
And  showers  began  to  swell  the  ground ; 
The  sunshine  laughed  among  the  grain, 
And  heaps  on  heaps  piled  up  the  wain; 
The  loft  his  hay  could  barely  hold, 

The  cattle  did  as  they  were  told  ; 

His  fruit  trees  needed  sturdy  props 
To  hold  the  gathering  apple  crops  ; 

His  turnip  and  potato  fields 
Astonished  all  men  by  their  yields ; 

Folks  never  saw  such  ears  of  corn 
As  in  his  smiling  hills  were  born ; 

His  barn  was  full  of  bursting  bins — 

His  wife  presented  him  with  twins; 

His  neighbors  marveled  more  and  more 
To  see  the  increase  in  his  store. 

And  now  the  merry  farmer  sings, 

“There  are  two  ways  of  doing  things; 
And  when  for  good  luck  you  would  pray. 
Hang  up  your  horseshoe  the  right  way.” 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


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DISPROVED. 

JULIA  H.  THAYER. 

“Poh-poh!  Who  sends  the  valentine 
In  our  refined,  enlightened  day? 

Back  to  its  pagan  gloom  consign 
This  worship  at  a worthless  shrine,” 

I heard  the  wise  old  cynic  say. 

“ Youth  has  outgrown  the  childish  toy, 

The  highly-colored  heart  and  flowers 
And  Cupid’s  foolish  darts  employ 
No  more  the  nobler  aim  and  joy 
Of  this  exalted  race  of  ours.” 

But  softly  ’mid  the  meerschaum’s  smoke 
That  circled  his  didactic  head 
A far,  faint  dream  of  life  awoke, 

And  when  the  steel-blue  cloudlets  broke 
A sun-like  face  its  radiance  shed. 

The  one,  One  face — the  very  same. 

The  years  were  gone— love  was  divine ! 
And  to  his  cold,  blanched  lips  there  came 
Again  the  blush  of  that  dear  name, 

His  first,  last,  only  Valentine. 

Alas ! for  us,  so  worldly-wise ! 

Like  dead  leaves,  ’round  us  fade  and  fall 
Our  sophistries,  in  poor  disguise, 

While  shapes  we  scarcely  recognize 
Remain  the  vernal  things  of  all. 

There  is  no  unbelief.  The  heart 

Of  Truth  beats  strong,  with  master-stroke, 
Above  the  dissonance  of  Art, 

And  theories  that  act  a part 

Are  certain,  too,  to  end  in  smoke. 

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FATHER  AND  MOTHER. 

Young  America  has  some  very  queer  ways;  one 
is  the  habit  of  calling  certain  of  his  relations,  “ the 
governor,”  “ the  old  man,”  “ the  old  woman,”  “her 
highness.”  Who  are  these  people  that  he  speaks 
of  in  such  a would-be  funny  way  ? Why,  they  are 
the  ones  who  have  worked  hard  for  years  that  he 
might  have  an  easy  time,  who  have  worn  blue  jean 
and  eaten  johnny  cake,  that  he  might  wear  broad- 
cloth and  dine  expensively.  They  are,  of  all  peo- 
ple in  the  world,  the  ones  whom  he  ought  to  delight 
to  honor.  They  are  his  father  and  mother.  What 
do  you  suppose  is  the  reason  he  doesn’t  call  them 
so?  Perhaps  it  is  because  he  is  ashamed  of  them. 
Perhaps  their  grammar  is  a little  crooked;  well,  it 
sounds  better  than  his  slang.  Their  manners  may 
be  a little  stiff  and  old  fashioned,  but  does  his 
rowdyism  make  him  appear  any  better?  Ah! 
Master  America,  I fear  you  have  some  foolish 
notions  in  your  head ! I fear  those  notions  are  in 
the  place  where  your  common  sense  ought  to  be. 
I don’t  ask  you  to  take  any  advice  from  me,  but 
just  be  ready  to  tell  why  you  are  not  proud  of  that 
trembling  mother  who  has  spent  her  strength  in 
caring  for  you.  If  you  do  not  cherish  her  in  her 
declining  years  you  are  not  worthy  of  the  noble 
parents  who  so  tenderly  cared  for  you  in  yonr 
helpless  infancy. 

THE  POWER  OF  MONOSYLLABLES. 

J.  ADDISON  ALEXANDER. 

Think  not  that  strength  lies  in  the  big  round 
word, 

Or  that  the  brief  and  plain  must  needs  be  weak; 
176 


To  whom  can  this  be  true  who  once  has  heard 

The  cry  for  help,  the  tongue  that  all  men  speak 
When  want,  or  woe,  or  fear  is  in  the  throat. 

So  that  each  word  gasped  out  is  like  a shriek 
Pressed  from  the  sore  throat,  or  a strange,  wild 
note 

Sung  by  some  fay  or  fiend ! There  is  a 
strength 

Which  dies  if  stretched  too  far,  or  spun  too  fine ; 

Which  has  more  height  than  breadth,  more 
depth  than  length. 

Let  but  this  force  of  thought  and  speech  be  mine, 

And  he  that  will  may  take  the' sleek,  fat  phrase 
Which  glows  and  burns  not,  though  it  gleam  and 
•shine  ; 

Light,  but  not  heat — a flash  without  a blaze. 

Nor  is  it  mere  strength  that  the  short  word 
boasts ; 

It  serves  far  more  than  fight  or  storm  can  tell — 
The  roar  of  waves  that  clash  on  rock-bound 
coasts  ; 

The  crash  of  tall  trees  when  the  wild  winds 
swell ; 

The  roar  of  guns  ; the  groans  of  men  that  die 

On  blood-stained  fields.  It  has  a voice  as  well 
For  them  that  far  off  on  their  sick  beds  lie. 

For  them  that  weep,  for  them  that  mourn  the 
dead, 

For  them  that  laugh,  and  dance,  and  clap  the 
hand  ; 

To  joy’s  quick  step,  as  well  as  grief’s  slow  tread, 
The  sweet,  plain  words  we  learnt  at  first  keep 
time ; 

And  though  the  theme  be  sad,  or  gay,  or  grand. 
With  each,  with  all,  these  may  be  made  to  chime^ 


In  thought  or  speech,  or  song,  or  prose,  or 
rhyme. 

UNSOLVED  MYSTERIES. 

R.  J.  BURDETTE. 

There  are  some  unsolved  mysteries  in  the  prob- 
lem of  life  that  give  me  cause  for  reflection 
and  anxiety.  If  I were  rich  I believe  I would 
build  me  a lonely  cell  with  a storeroom  like  a 
wholesale  grocery,  where  I might  have  plenty  of 
help  in  studying  the  problems  of  life.  For  often 
and  often  I wonder  and  wonder  : 

Why  you  always  put  teaspoons  into  the  vase  up- 
side down  ? 

Why  is  it  so  wrong  to  eat  pie  with  a knife? 

What  Washington  said  to  General  Lee  at  the 
battle  of  Monmouth  ? 

Why  a man  who  “ has  gone  out  of  politics  ” 
never  misses  a convention  ? 

What  the  State  would  do  for  penitentiaries  if 
all  the  rascals  should  suddenly  step  up  and  con- 
fess ? 

Why  a woman  falls  like  a flash  not  two  inches 
from  the  banana  skin  she  steps  on,  while  a man 
falls  like  a cyclone  half  way  round  the  block, 
howling  like  a demon  at  every  plunge  ? 

Why  “ pure  bear’s  oil  ” is  cheaper  when  pork  is 
away  down  ? 

Why  a man  frequently  tries  to  make  himself 
necessary  when  he  would  serve  humanity  much 
better  by  making  himself  scarce  ? 

Why  Tom  Thumb  was  always  billed  as  “ 23 
years  old  ” until  the  day  he  died,  when  he  made  a 
jump  of  more  than  his  lifetime? 

Whatever  became  of  the  “ blue  glass  ” remedy  ? 

178 


I don’t  believe  in  philosophy  wasting  its  time  on 
trifles.  If  the  wise  men  want  something  useful 
and  practical  to  ponder  over,  here  are  the  prob- 
lems. 


CRACKED. 

Twas  a set  of  resolutions,  as  fine  as  fine  could  be, 

And  signed  in  painstaking  fashion,  by  Nettie,  and 
Joe  and  Bee. 

And  last  in  the  list  was  written,  in  letters  broad 
and  dark, 

To  look  as  grand  as  the  others,  Miss  Baby  Grace, 
her  mark. 

“We’ll  try  always  to  help  our  mother; 

We  won’t  be  selfish  to  each  other; 

We’ll  say  kind  words  to  every  one, 

We  won’t  tie  pussy’s  feet  for  fun, 

We  won’t  be  cross  and  snarly  too, 

And  all  the  good  we  can,  we’ll  do.” 

“ ^ s just  as  easy  to  keep  them,”  the  children 
gladly  cried. 

But  mamma  smiled,  as  she  answered,  “ Wait  dar- 
lings, until  you  have  tried.” 

And  truly  the  glad  New  Year,  wasn’t  his  birthday 
old,  y 

When  three  little  sorrowful  faces,  a sorrowful 
story  told. 

9 W9 


‘ 


i 


“And  how  are  your  good  resolutions?”  we  asked  of 
Baby  Grace, 

Who  stood  with  a smile  of  wonder,  on  her  dear  little 
dimpled  face; 

Quick  came  the  merry  answer,  she  never  an  instant 
lacked, 

“ I don’t  fink  much  of  ’ems  broken ; 

But  I dess  ’ems  about  all  cracked.” 


BY  AND  BY. 

What  will  it  matter,  by  and  by, 

Whether  my  path  below  was  bright, 
Whether  it  wound  through  dark  or  light, 
Under  a gray  or  a golden  sky, 

When  I look  back  on  it,  by  and  by? 

What  will  it  matter,  by  and  by, 

Whether  unhelped  I toiled  alone, 

Dashing  my  foot  against  a stone, 

Missing  the  charge  of  the  angel  nigh, 
Bidding  me  think  of  the  by  and  by? 

What  will  it  matter,  by  and  by, 

Whether  with  laughing  joy  I went 
Down  through  the  years,  with  glad  intent; 
Never  believing,  nay,  not  I, 

Tears  would  be  sweeter,  by  and  by? 

What  will  it  matter,  by  and  by. 

Whether  with  cheek  to  cheek  I’ve  lain 
Close  by  the  pallid  angel,  Pain ; 

Soothing  myself  through  sob  and  sigh, 

“ All  will  be  elsewhere,  by  and  by?” 

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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


What  will  it  matter?  Naught,  if  I 
Only  am  sure  the  way  I’ve  trod, 
Gloomy  or  gladdened,  leads  to  God; 
Questioning  not  of  the  how,  the  why, 

If  I but  reach  Him  by  and  by. 

What  will  I care  for  the  unshared  sigh, 

If,  in  my  fear  of  slip  or  fall, 

Closely  I’ve  clung  to  Christ  through  all; 
Mindless  how  rough  the  path  might  lie, 
Since  he  will  smooth  it  by  and  by? 

Ah ! it  will  matter,  by  and  by, 

Nothing  but  this — that  joy  or  pain 
Lifted  me  skyward,  helped  me  gain, 
Whether  through  rack  or  smile  or  sigh, 
Heaven— home— all  in  all,  by  and  by! 


TWO  LITTLE  HANDS. 

Once  on  a summer  day  divine, 

Two  little  hands  fell  into  mine; 

How  pink  they  were ! how  frail  and  fine, 
Each  one  a crumpled  velvet  ball, 

So  soft  and  so  absurdly  small, 

Ah,  me ! to  hold  within  them  all 
Life’s  tangled  and  msyterious  skein, 

The  mingled  threads  of  joy  and  pain 
Whose  hidden  ends  we  seek  in  vain. 

^3 


O!  fast  the  years  have  fled  away; 

Two  little  hands,  at  work  or  play 
Still  bide  with  me  the  livelong  day; 

Now  on  some  willful  mischief  bent, 

And  now  to  loving  service  lent, 

Now  folded — sleepy  and  content — 

The  dimpled  fingers  curled,  like  those 
Sweet  jealous  leaves  that  cling  and  close 
About  the  red  heart  of  a rose. 

I kissed  them  with  a passionate  sigh; 

The  <juick  fears  spring,  I scarce  know  why 
In  thinking  of  the  by  and  by ! 

How  will  they  build,  these  little  hands? 
Upon  the  treacherous,  sifting  sands? 

Or,  where  the  Rock  Eternal  stands? 

And  will  they  fashion,  strong  and  true, 

The  work  that  they  shall  find  to  do! 

Dear  little  hands,  if  I but  knew ! 

Could  I but  see  the  veiled  fate, 

Behind  your  barred  and  hidden  gate ! 

Yet  trusting  this,  my  love  must  wait! 

O ! when  perplexed  no  more  by  these 
Tear-blinded  ways,  my  wanderings  cease 
In  the  sweet  valleys  of  His  peace; 

Beyond  the  dark,  some  heavenly  sign, 
Some  clew,  however  faint  and  fine 
Shall  guide  these  little  hands  to  mine ! 


184 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK-EYED  REBEL. 

A hoy  drove  into  the  city,  his  wagon  loaded  down 

With  food  to  feed  the  people  of  the  British  gov- 
erned town  ; 

And  the  little  black-e^v.^  rebel,  so  cunning  and  so 
sly, 

Was  watching  for  his  coming  from  the  corner  of 
her  eye. 

His  face  looked  broad  and  honest,  his  hands  were 
brown  and  tough, 

The  clothes  he  wore  upon  him  were  homespun, 
coarse  and  rough, 

But  one  there  was  who  watched  him,  who  long 
time  lingered  nigh, 

And  cast  at  him  sweet  glances  from  the  corner 
of  her  eye. 

He  drove  up  to  the  market,  he  waited  in  the  line; 

His  apples  and  potatoes  were  fresh,  and  fair  and 
fine. 

But  long  and  long  he  waited,  and  no  one  came  to 
buy, 

Save  the  little  black-eyed  rebel,  watching  from  the 
corner  of  her  eye. 

“Now  who  will  buy  my  apples?”  he  shouted  long 
and  loud, 

And  “Who  wants  my  potatoes?”  he  repeated  to 
the  crowd. 

But  from  all  the  people  round,  came  no  sign  of  a 
reply, 

Save  the  little  black-eyed  rebel,  answering  from 
the  corner  of  her  eye. 

For  she  knew  that  ’neath  the  lining  of  the  coat  he 
wore  that  day, 

185 


/ 


7A 


Were  long  letters  from  the  husbands,  and  the 
fathers  far  away, 

Who  were  fighting  for  the  freedom  that  they  meant 
to  win  or  die, 

And  a silvery  teardrop  glistened  in  the  corner  of 
her  eye. 

But  the  treasures,  how  to  get  them?  crept  the 
question  through  her  mind, 

Since  keen  enemies  were  watching  for  what  prizes 
they  might  find, 

So  she  paused  and  pondered  with  a pretty  little 
sigh, 

Then  resolve  shone  through  her  features,  and 
shrewdness  fired  her  eye. 

As  she  confidently  walked  up  to  the  wagon,  old 
and  red; 

“May  I have  a dozen  apples  for  a kiss?”  she 
sweetly  said ; 

And  the  brown  face  flushed  to  scarlet,  for  the  boy 
was  somewhat  shy, 

And  he  saw  her  laughing  at  him,  from  the  corner 
of  her  eye. 

“You  may  have  them  all  for  nothing,  and  more  if 
you  want,”  quoth  he. 

“ I will  have  them,  my  good  fellow,  but  can  pay 
for  them,”  said  she. 

As  she  clambered  on  the  wagon,  minding  not  the 
passers  by, 

With  a laugh  of  reckless  romping  in  the  corner  of 
her  eye. 

Clinging  round  his  brawny  neck,  she  clasped  her 
fingers  white  and  small, 

And  then  whispered,  “ Quick  ! the  letters ! thrust 
them  underneath  my  shawl! 

1 86 


Carry  back  again  this  package,  and  be  sure  that 
you  are  spry,” 

And  she  sweetly  smiled  upon  him  from  the  corner 
of  her  eye. 

Loud  the  motley  crowd  were  laughing,  at  the 
strange,  ungirlish  freak, 

While  the  boy  was  scared  and  panting,  and  so 
dazed  he  could  not  speak  ; 

And,  “ Miss  I have  good  apples,”  a bolder  lad  did 
cry  ; 

But  she  answered,  “ No,  I thank  you,”  from  the 
corner  of  her  eye. 

With  the  news  of  loved  ones  absent  to  the  dear 
friends  they  would  greet, 

Searching  those  who  hungered  for  them,  swift  she 
glided  through  the  street. 

“ There  is  nothing  worth  the  doing,  that  it  does 
not  pay  to  try,” 

Thought  the  little  black-eyed  rebel,  with  a twinkle 
in  her  eye. 


TO  THE  END  OF  THE  CHAPTER. 

“Even  to  your  old  age  I am  he;  and  even  to  hoar  hairs  will  I carry  you 
I have  made,  and  I will  bear;  even  1 will  carry,  and  will  deliver  you"  (Isa; 

xlvi.  4). 

The  light  is  dim  in  the  western  skies, 

And  dim  the  light  in  the  aged  eyes; 

But  the  end  of  the  chapter  is  so  near, 

And  the  truths  of  the  chapter  are  so  dear, 

He  must  read  to  the  close— till  the  light  goes  past, 
And  life  has  vanished  from  day  at  last. 

And  then  with  reverent  hands  he’ll  lay 
The  Book  for  a little  while  away; 

And  in  the  peace  of  his  cpiiet  room 
Sit  restfully  thro’  the  twilight  gloom, 

Busy  with  thoughts  that  come  and  go, 

Like  flitting  shadows,  to  and  fro. 

“ Even  to  his  old  age,”  ah ! yes, 

He  has  proven  its  truth  and  tenderness; 

He  has  known  his  Lord  thro’  his  many  years, 

He  has  trusted  his  Lord  thro’  hopes  and  fears; 

He  has  felt  His  strength  from  his  youth  till  now, 
When  the  hairs  are  “ hoar  ” above  his  brow. 

He  has  borne  him  safely  thro’  floods  of  woe, 

He  has  made  him  daily  His  care  to  know, 

And  his  faithful  heart,  in  its  humble  trust, 

Feels  all  He  does  to  be  wise  and  just; 

For  “ lie  -will  deliver ,”  come  grief  and  pain, 

And  after  the  clouds  send  light  again. 

The  dear  Lord  ruleth  his  life  each  day, 

And  now  when  cometh  the  twilight  gray 
He  still  will  read  with  His  tender  eyes, 

So  long  as  there’s  light  in  the  western  skies, 

To  the  end  of  the  chapter;  then  His  breast 
Will  give  to  the  ransomed  soul  its  rest. 

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UNCLE  NATE’S  FUNERAL. 


WILL  CARLETON. 


’Twas  not  at  all  like  those  you  see  of  ordinary  men : 
’Twas  such  as  never  could  occur,  excepting  now  and 
then; 

For  Uncle  Nate  nad  studied  hard  upon  it,  night  and 
day, 

And  planned  it  all— while  yet  alive— in  his  peculiar 


w <x  y . 

“ I’ve  managed  other  men’s  remains,”  he  said,  with 
quiet  tone, 

“ And  now  I’ll  make  a first-class  try  to  regulate  my 
own.” 

And  so,  a month  before  his  death,  he  wrote  the  de- 
tails down, 

For  friends  to  print,  when  he  was  dead,  and  mail 
throughout  the  town. 


The  paper  said:  “I’ve  figured  close,  and  done  the 
best  I knew, 

To  have  a good  large  funeral,  when  this  short  life 
was  through; 

I’ve  thought  about  it  night  and  day,  I’ve  brooded  o’er 
the  same, 

Until  it  almost  seemed  a task  to  wait  until  it  came. 

Especially  as  my  good  wife  has  wandered  on  ahead, 

And  all  the  children  we  possessed  have  many  years 
been  dead; 


And  now  I’ll  tell  you  what  I want  my  friends  and 
foes  to  do — 

I’m  sorry  that  I can’t  be  here  to  push  th’  arrange- 
ment through; 

“ I do  not  want  to  hire  a hearse,  with  crape  around  it 
thrown; 

I’m  social  like,  and  am  not  used  to  riding  round 
alone, 

Bring  my  old  wagon,  into  which  the  children  used  to 
climb 

Until  I’ve  taken  on  a drive  full  twenty  at  a time; 

We’ve  loafed  along  the  country  roads  for  many 
pleasant  hours, 

And  they  have  scampered  far  and  near,  and  picked 
the  freshest  flowers; 

And  I would  like  to  have  them  come,  upon  my 
burial  day, 

And  ride  with  me,  and  talk  to  me,  and  sing  along  the 
way. 

“ I want  my  friend  the  minister — the  best  of  preacher 
folks, 

With  whom  I’ve  argued,  prayed  and  wept,  ana 
swapped  a thousand  jokes — 

To  talk  a sermon  to  the  friends,  and  make  it  sweet, 
but  strong; 

And  recollect,  - don’t  believe  in  speeches  overlong. 

And  tell  him,  notwithstanding  all  his  eloquence  and 
worth; 

5T won’t  be  the  first  time  I have  slept  when  he  was 
holding  forth. 

I’d  like  two  texts;  and  one  shall  be  by  Bible  covers 
pressed, 


192 


And  one  from  outside,  that  shall  read,  ‘He  did  his 
level  best.’ 


“And  any  one  I’ve  given  help — to  comfort  or  to 
save — 

Just  bring  a flower,  or  sprig  of  grass,  and  throw  it  in 
the  grave. 

Please  have  a pleasant,  social  time  round  the  sub- 
scriber’s bier, 

And  no  one  but  my  enemies  must  shed  a single  tear. 

You  simply  say,  ‘Old  Uncle  Nate,’ whatever  mav 
befall, 

Is  having  probably  to-day  the  best  time  of  us  all ! 

He’s  shaking  hands,  two  at  a time,  with  several  hun- 
dred friends, 

And  giving  us  who  stay  behind  good,  gilt-edged 
recommends !’  ” 


They  tried  to  follow  all  the  rules  that  Uncle  Nate 
laid  down; 

When  he  was  dead,  they  came  to  him  from  every 
house  in  town. 

The  children  did  their  best  to  sing,  but  could  not 
quite  be  heard; 

The  parson  had  a sermon  there,  but  could  not  speak 
a word. 

Of  course  they  buried  him  in  flowers,  and  kissed  him 
as  he  lay, 

For  not  a soul  in  all  that  town  but  he  had  helped 
some  way; 

But  when  they  tried  to  mould  his  mound  without  the 
tear’s  sweet  leaven, 

There  rose  loud  sobs  that  Uncle  Nate  could  almost 
hear  in  Heaven. 


193 


WHAT  TRY  DOES. 


SPURGEON. 

Of  all  the  pretty  little  songs  you  have  ever  heard, 
that  is  one  of  the  best  which  winds  up — 

“If  at  first  you  don’t  succeed. 

Try,  try,  try  again.” 

It  is  recommended  to  grown  up  people  who  are 
down  in  the  mouth,  and  fancy  that  the  best  thing 
they  can  do  is  to  give  up.  Nobody  knows  what 
he  can  do  till  he  tries.  “We  shall  get  through 
now,”  said  Jack  to  Harry,  as  they  finished  up  the 
pudding ; and  why  not  of  other  things  ? Every- 
thing new  is  hard  work,  but  a little  of  the  TRY  oint- 
ment rubbed  on  the  hand  and  worked  into  the 
heart  makes  all  things  easy. 

Can't  do  it  sticks  in  the  mud,  but  Try  soon  drags 
the  wagon  out  of  the  rut.  The  fox  said  Try,  and 
he  got  away  from  the  hounds  when  they  almost 
snapped  at  him.  The  bees  said  Try,  and  turned 
flowers  into  honey.  The  squirrel  said  Try,  and  up 
he  went  to  the  top  of  the  beech  tree.  The  snow- 
drop said  Try,  and  bloomed  in  the  cold  snows  of 
winter.  The  sun  said  Try,  and  the  spring  soon 
threw  Jack  Frost  out  of  sight.  The  young  lark 
said  Try,  and  he  found  that  his  wings  took  him 
194 


over  hedges  and  ditches,  and  up  where  his  father 
was  singing.  The  ox  said  Try,  and  plowed  the 
field  from  end  to  end.  No  hill  too  steep  for  Try  to 
climb,  no  clay  too  stiff  for  Try  to  plow,  no  field 
too  wet  for  Try  to  drain,  no  hole  too  big  for  Try 
to  mend. 

“ By  little  strokes 
Men  fell  great  oaks.” 

By  a spadeful  at  a time  men  dig  out  the  cuttings, 
cut  a big  hole  through  the  hill,  and  heap  up  the 
embankment,  and  the  railroad  cars  spin  along. 

“The  stone  is  hard,  and  the  drop  is  small, 

But  a hole  is  made  by  the  constant  fall.” 

What  man  has  done  man  can  do,  and  what  has 
never  been  may  be.  Plowmen  have  got  to  be 
gentlemen,  cobblers  have  turned  their  lapstones 
into  gold,  and  tailors  have  become  Members  of 
Parliament.  Tuck  up  your  shirt  sleeves,  young 
Hopeful,  and  go  at  it.  Where  there’s  a will  there’s 
a way.  The  sun  shines  for  all  the  world.  Believe 
in  God,  and  stick  to  hard  work,  and  see  if  the 
mountains  are  not  removed.  Faint  heart  never 
won  fair  lady.  Cheer,  boys,  cheer;  God  helps 
them  that  help  themselves.  Never  mind  luck,  that’s 
what  the  fool  had  when  he  killed  himself  with  eat- 
ing suet  pudding  ; the  best  luck  in  all  the  world  is 
made  of  elbow  grease. 

THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY  TEACHER. 

’Twas  Saturday  night,  and  a teacher  sat 
Alone,  her  task  pursuing  ; 

She  averaged  this,  and  she  averaged  that 
Of  all  that  her  class  were  doing. 

She  reckoned  percentage,  so  many  boys, 

r97 


And  so  many  girls  all  counted, 

And  marked  all  the  tardy  and  absentees, 

And  to  what  it  all  amounted. 

Names  and  residences  wrote  in  full, 

Over  many  columns  and  pages  ; 

Yankee,  Teutonic,  African,  Celt, 

And  averaged  all  their  ages. 

The  date  of  admission  of  every  one, 

And  cases  of  flagellation, 

And  prepared  a list  of  the  graduates 
For  the  coming  examination. 

Her  weary  head  sank  low  on  her  book, 

And  her  weary  heart  still  lower, 

For  some  of  her  pupils  had  little  brain, 

And  she  could  not  furnish  more. 

She  slept,  she  dreamed ; it  seemed  she  died, 
And  her  spirit  went  to  Hades, 

And  they  met  her  there  with  a question  fair, 

“ State  what  the  per  cent,  of  your  grade  is.’’ 

Ages  had  slowly  rolled  away, 

Leaving  but  partial  traces, 

And  the  teacher’s  spirit  walked  one  day 
In  the  old  familiar  places. 

A mound  of  fossilized  school  reports 
Attracted  her  observation, 

As  high  as  the  State  House  dome,  and  as  wide 
As  Boston  since  annexation. 

She  came  to  the  spot  where  they  buried  her 
bones, 

And  the  ground  was  well  built  over, 

But  laborers  digging,  threw  out  a skull 
Once  planted  beneath  the  clover. 

A disciple  of  Galen  wandering  by, 


THE  CONSECRATING  INFLUENCE  OF 
THE  WAR  FOR  FREEDOM. 

JAMES  A.  GARFIELD. 

I love  to  believe  that  no  heroic  sacrifice  is  ever 
lost.  That  the  characters  of  men  are  moulded  and 
inspired  by  what  their  fathers  have  done — that 
treasured  up  in  American  souls,  are  all  the  uncon- 
scious influences  of  the  great  deeds  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  race,  from  Agincourt  to  Bunker  Hill.  It 
was  ^uch  an  influence  which  led  a young  Greek, 
two  thousand  years  ago,  when  he  heard  the  news 
of  Marathon,  to  exclaim,  “ The  trophies  of  Milti- 
ades  will  not  let  him  sleep.”  Could  these  men  be 
silent  in  1861 — these,  whose  ancestors  had  felt  the 
inspiration  of  battle  on  every  field  where  civiliza- 
tion had  fought  in  the  last  thousand  years?  Read 
their  answer  in  this  green  turf.  Each  for  himself 
gathered  up  all  the  cherished  purposes  of  life — its 
aims  and  ambitions,  its  dearest  affections — and 
flung  all  with  life  itself,  into  the  scale  of  battle. 

We  began  the  war  for  the  Union  alone,  but  we 
had  not  gone  far  into  its  darkness  before  a new 
element  was  added  to  the  conflict,  which  filled  the 
army  and  the  nation  with  cheerful  but  intense  reli- 
gious enthusiasm.  In  lessons  that  could  not  be 
misunderstood,  the  nation  was  taught  that  God 
had  linked  to  our  own  the  destiny  of  an  enslaved 
race — that  their  liberty  and  our  Union  were  indeed 
“ one  and  inseparable.”  It  was  this  that  made  the 
soul  of  John  Brown  the  marching  companion  of 
our  soldiers,  and  made  them  sing  as  they  went 
down  to  battle — 

“ In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 

With  a glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me  ; 

As  he  died  to  make  man  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free — 
While  God  is  marching  on.” 

200 


With  such  inspirations,  failure  was  impossible. 
The  struggle  consecrated,  in  some  degree,  every 
man  who  bore  a worthy  part.  I can  never  forget 
an  incident,  illustrative  of  this  thought,  which  was 
my  fortune  to  witness  near  sunset  of  the  second 
day  atChickamauga,  when  the  beleaguered  but  un- 
broken left  wing  of  our  army  had  again  and  again 
repelled  the  assaults  of  more  than  double  their 
number,  and  when  each  soldier  felt  that  to  his  in- 
dividual hands  were  committed  the  life  of  the 
army  and  the  honor  of  his  country.  It  was  just 
after  a division  had  fired  its  last  cartridge,  and  had 
repelled  a charge  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  that 
the  great-hearted  commander  took  the  hand  of  an 
humble  soldier  and  thanked  him  for  his  steadfast 
courage.  The  soldier  stood  silent  for  a moment, 
and  then  said,  “ George  H.  Thomas  has  taken  this 
hand  in  his.  I’ll  knock  down  any  mean  man  that 
offers  to  take  it  hereafter.”  This  rough  sentence 
was  full  of  meaning.  He  felt  that  something  had 
happened  to  his  hand  which  consecrated  it.  Could 
a hand  bear  our  banner  in  battle  and  not  be  for- 
ever consecrated  to  honor  and  virtue  ? But  doubly 
consecrated  were  these  who  received  into  their 
own  hearts  the  fatal  shafts,  aimed  at  the  life  of 
their  country.  Fortunate  men  ! your  country  lives 
because  you  died  ! Y our  fame  is  placed  where  the 
breath  of  calumny  can  never  reach  it;  where  the 
mistakes  of  a weary  life  can  never  dim  its  bright- 
ness ! Coming  generations  will  rise  up  to  call  you 
blessed ! 


CHRISTMAS  HELLS. 


This  Carol  should  be  sung  by  the  same  number  of  little  girls  and 
boys,  arranged  in  a semi-circle  opposite  each  other.  A large  silver 
Star  is  suspended  by  a wire  in  the  center  of  stage,  and  at  the  words, 
“ Thousands  are  hailing  the  Morning  Star,”  the  girls  point  with  left 
hand  to  the  Star,  and  boys  with  the  right.  As  they  sing,  “ Beautiful 
Star!  let  thy  glorious  ray,”  all  reverently  kneel  before  the  Star  with 
clasped  hands,  and  remain  in  that  posture  until  close  of  the  stanzas. 


Mrs.  Loula  K.  Rogers  R.  M.  McIntosh. 


1.  List!  list  to  the  chime  of  the  Christmas  bells, 

2.  Oh,  mer  - ri  - ly,  mer  - ri  - ly  chiming  to  - day, 

3.  Thy  sil  - ver  - y mu  - sic  is  waft-ed  a - far, 


|=L 

1 fj  i ! 

w 

at 

U ! aN 

The 

Christmas  bells, 

the 

Christmas  bells, 

Yes, 

chiming  to  - day. 

yes. 

chiming  to  - day. 

Is 

wafted  a - far. 

is 

wafted  a - far, 

WINTER. 


w> 

m \- 


The  Bride. — White  dress  and  veil,  wreath , also  a 
faded  wreath. 

Lovell. — Knee-breeches  of  white  paper  cambric , coat 
faced  with  same , ruffled  shirt,  white  cravat,  white 
wig  and  beard  for  last  scenes. 


Four  Gentlemen  or  Boys,  \ cfPtmf bright-colored 


Four  Ladies  or  Girls. — Silk  train  dresses,  powd- 
ered hair. 

The  Baroness. — Black  dress  in  same  style. 

Six  Little  Children  in  ordinary  dress. 
Properties. — One  table,  one  chair,  two  boxes.  Front, 
side  and  lid  of  chest,  four  and  one-half  feet  long, 
two  and  one-half  high;  the  lid  is  hinged,  as  usual, 
to  the  back ; the  four  sides  of  the  chest  are  not 
nailed  together , but  merely  held  together  by  hooks 
and  eyes  at  each  corner  inside.  The  sides  must 
be  unhooked  for  the  last  scene  to  allow  the  chest  to 
fall  to  pieces. 

At  rise  of  curtain  the  bride  and  Lovell  stand  in 
center  of  stage  at  back,  the  baron  and  baroness 
at  the  left  hand  of  Lovell.  The  others  stand  in 
two  lines  at  side,  gentlemen  at  right  hand  of  part- 
ners. They  dance  as  follows  : Head  couple  for- 


W'f 

m \- 


207 


ward  and  back,  sides  forward  and  back  twice  and 
bow,  grand  right  and  left.  The  pianist  must  play 
the  melody,  and  as  the  bride  and  Lovell  meet  at 
head  of  the  stage,  the  singer  must  twice  sing  the 
chorus,  “ O,  the  Mistletoe  Bough.”  At  the  word 
“ bough,”  the  couples  join  right  hands  and  bow, 
first  to  partner,  then  to  opposites,  in  exact  time 
with  music.  The  song  then  begins,  the  same 
dance  coming  in  as  marked. 


The  Mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle 
hall, 

The  holly  branch  shone  on  the  old 
oak  wall ; 

And  the  baron’s  retainers  were 
blithe  and  gay, 

And  keeping  their  Christmas  holi- 
day. 


Lovell  leads  his  Bride  forward 
and  points  up. 

They  go  backwaid  to  place,  he 
points  to  sides  of  stage. 

Sides  forward  and  back,  bow , and 
begin  the  dance,  which  goes  on 
as  above. 


The  baron  beheld  with  a father’s 

pride. 

His  beautiful  child,  young  Lov- 
ell’s bride, 

While  she  with  her  bright  eyes 
seemed  to  be 

The  star  of  the  goodly  company, 


CHORUS. 

O,  the  Mistletoe  bough  ! 
O,  the  Mistletoe  bough  ! 


ice.) 

Lovell  leads  Bride  to  Baron, 
who  salutes  her ; he  then  leads 
her  to  center  of  stage  and  puts  a 
ring  upon  her  finger. 

They  look  tenderly  at  each  other, 
and  remain  in  center,  hand  in 
hand,  until  chorus,  when  they 
bow  first  to  each  other,  then  to 
sides. 

A ll  bow  as  before. 

nee.) 


“ I’m  weary  of  dancing  now,”  she 
cried  ; 

“ Here  tarry  a moment,  I’ll  hide, 
I’ll  hide  ! 

And,  Lovell,  be  sure  thou’rt  the 
first  to  trace 

The  clue  to  my  secret  lurking 
place.” 

Away  she  ran,  and  her  friends  be- 


Bride comes  forward,  stretches 
out  her  hands  weaiily,  places 
left  hand  on  Lovell’s  shoulder, 
who  also  comes  fotward ; she 
points  over  her  shoulder  and  runs 
off  at  the  right.  Dancers  cross ■ 
and  go  out. 


gan 


20b 


Each  tower  to  search,  and  each 
nook  to  scan  ; 

And  young  Lovell  cried,  “ O 
where  dost  thou  hide  ? 

I'm  lonesome  without  thee,  my 
own  dear  bride." 

O,  the  Mistletoe  bough  ! 


Lovell  expresses  despair.  Baron- 
ess comes  forward,  places  her 
right  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
They  salute  each  other,  then 
bow  to  audience  at  chorus. 

[ Curtain  falls. 


SCENE  II. — Chest  in  center,  table  tipped  over  at  right  of  stage,  chair 
on  floor  at  left.  The  melody  is  played.  Bride  enters  hastily;  first 
hides  behind  the  table,  then  decides  to  enter  chest,  draws  up  chair 
and  steps  in.  The  chorus  is  then  sung,  and  the  Bride  lets  the  lid 
fall  heavily  at  last  note. 


They  sought  her  that  night,  and  The  dancers  enter  slowly,  pause  a 
they  sought  her  next  day,  moment,  then  cross  and  exit. 

And  they  sought  her  in  vain, 
when  a week  passed  away, 

In  the  highest,  the  lowest,  the 
loneliest  spot, 

Young  Lovell  sought  wildly,  but 

found  her  not.  {Curtain  falls. 


SCENE  III.— Children  are  playing  “ Thread  the  Needle,"  in  time 
to  the  melody ; they  stop  suddenly,  two  of  them  point  to  tight  of 
stage. 


And  years  flew  by,  and  their  grief 
at  last 

Was  told  as  a sorrowful  tale  long 
past ; 

And  when  Lovell  appeared,  the 
children  cried, 

“ See  ! the  old  man  weeps  for  his 
fairy  bride.” 

O,  the  Mistletoe  bough  ! 


Lovell  appears  at  right,  dressed 
as  an  old  man , and  crosses  the 
stage  slowly. 

He  bows  his  head  and  weeps,  then 
salutes  the  Children,  who  bow 
to  him  and  then  to  audience. 

[ Curtain  falls. 


SCENE  IV.— Same  as  Scene  III.,  except  that  the  ehest  is  unhooked 
at  comers,  and  the  faded  wreath  inside. 


At  length  an  oak  chest,  that  had 
long  lain  hid, 

Was  found  in  the  castle.  They 
raised  the  lid, 

And  a skeleton  form  lay  molder- 
ing  there, 

In  the  bridal  wreath  of  the  lady 
fair ! 


Old  man  slowly  enters,  and  at- 
tempts to  raise  the  lid,  pushes 
the  light  comer  and  chest  falls. 
He  holds  up  the  wreath  with 
trembling  fingers.  Gazes  with 
hotror  on  the  chest.  Tut  ns  to 
audience  and  points  toward  it. 
He  kneels,  and  at  last  note  of 


O,  sad  was  her  fate  ! in  sportive 
jest 

She  hid  from  her  lord  in  the  old 
oak  chest  ; 

It  closed  with  a spring  ! and  her 
bridal  bloom 

Lay  withering  there  in  a living 
tomb. 

O,  the  Mistletoe  bough  ! 


chorus  falls  on  ruins  of  the 
chest. 


[ Curtain  falls. 


ZEKLE’S  COURTSHIP. 

[Illustrated  Ballad.] 

CHARACTERS. 

Five  Males.  Four  Females. 

Back  of  the  stage  are  two  screens , forming  wall.  On 
one  of  these  are  bright  tins ; to  the  other  is  attached 
a wooden  f 're frame  and  hearth , with  iron  andirons , 
laid  with  skillfully  fainted  logs;  behind  is  a small 
lamp , in  red  glass  bowl.  On  the  fire  frame  stands  a 
bright  lamp,  and  above  it  hangs  a rusty  musket , and 
a couple  of  crook-neck  squashes.  Upon  this  side 
is  an  entrance , with  braided  door  mat,  and  near  by,  a 
chair  for  Zekle  to  play  with  when  he  '•'•loiters  on  the 
maty  Across  the  room  sits  Huldah , in  a simple,  old 
fashioned  white  gown.  She  is  peeling  apples  out  of 
a large  tin  pan  upon  the  table,  into  an  earthen  bowl , 
held  in  her  lap,  one  foot  upon  a stool;  tallow  candle 
on  table.  This  play  requires  four  assistants  who  do 
not  act,  and  who  must  be  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
their  duties.  Their  positions,  and  the  positions  of 
all  the  actors,  must  be  assigned  before  the  curtain 
rises.  There  is  a narrow  curtain , which  slides  upon 
a rod  at  the  side  of  the  stage  next  Huldah,  and  behind 
her  is  the  entrance  into  this  room.  Here  stands  Hul- 
dalfs  ma,  “ a-sprinklin'  clothes  agin  to-morrer's 


210 


I'niti Hair  '•'pugged  up"  behind,  short  gown , 
skimp  skirt ; basket  of  clothes  and  tin  basin  before 
her , and  in  the  basket  the  white  crape  shawl  and 
straw  hat,  trimmed  with  huge  white  satin  bows , 
which  Huldah  has  on  in  the  last  tableau.  In  the 
front  grooves  arc  two  screens , representing  outside  of 
house.  In  one  of  these  is  a window,  with  turkey-red 
curtains,  exactly  opposite  the  kerosene  lamp  on  fire- 
frame,  which  sends  a bright  light  through  the  ruddy 
curtains;  against  the  house  a breadth  of  white  cloth 
is  “rucked”  up,  so  as  to  look  like  drifted  snow , and 
another  breadth , laid  smooth, , represents  a hard- 
beaten  path.  All  the  costumes  used  should  be  care- 
fully copied  from  old  plates,  unless  real  antique  suits 
can  be  obtained.  A good  reader  delivers  the  poem  in 
a slow  and  emphatic  manner , carefully  timing  his 
rendition  to  the  arrangement  of  the  various  tableaux. 
7 he  curtain  rises  upon  the  outside  of  a farmhouse 
on  a moonlight  night.  Everything  “white  and 
still"  Footlights  turned  down. 

Reader. — 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an’  still 
Fur’z  you  kin  look  or  listen  ; 

Moonshine  an’  snow,  on  field  an’  hill, 

All  silence,  an’  all  glisten. 

[Enter  Zekle.  Walks  slowly  across  stage , and 
“ peeks  in  thru ’ the  winder.”] 

Reader. — 

Zekle  crep’  up,  quite  unbeknown. 

An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder  ; 

An’  there  sot  Huldy,  all  alone, 

With  no  one  nigh  to  hinder. 

TABLEAU  I. 

A fireplace  filled  the  room’s  one  side, 

With  half  a cord  o’  wood  ia, 

There  warn’t  no  stoves  (till  comfort  died), 

To  bake  ye  to  a puddin’. 


The  wa’nut  logs  shot  sparkles  on 
Toward  the  pootiest,  bless  her! 

An’  leetle  fires  danced  all  about 
The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbly  crook-necks  hung, 

An’  in  among  ’em  rusted 

The  old  queen’s-arm  that  Gran’ther  Young 
Fetched  back  from  Concord,  busted. 

The  very  room,  cos  she  was  in, 

Seemed  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin’, 

An’  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she* was  peelin’: 

’Twas  kin’  o’  kingdom  come  to  look 
On  sech  a blessed  creetur, 

A dog-rose  blushin’  by  a brook, 

Ain’t  modester  nor  sweeter. 

\Zekle  straightens , and  clears  his  throaty 

He  was  six  foot  o’  man,  Al, 

Clean  grit  an’  human  natur’; 

None  couldn’t  quicker  pitch  a ton 
Nor  dror  a furrer  straighter. 

\Zekle  turns  toward  audience , throws  back  shoulders * 
and  scratches  back  of  head , 'pitching  hat  over  eyes.'] 

He’d  sparked  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 

He’d  squired  ’em,  danced  ’em,  druv  ’em; 

Fust  this  one,  an’  then  that,  by  spells, 

All  is,  he  couldn’t  love  ’em. 

But  ’long  o’  her  his  veins  ’ould  run 
All  crinkly,  like  curled  maple. 

\Bxit  Zekle , whistling  softly.] 

The  side  she  breshed  felt  full  o’  the  svm, 

Ez  a south  slope  in  April. 

She  thought  no  voice  had  sech  a swing 
Ez  his’n,  in  the  choir; 

My!  when  he  made  Old  Hundred  ring, 

She  know’d  the  Lord  was  nigher. 


[Two  assistants  draw  cotton  cloth  off  stage;  two- 
draw  scenes  open;  Zekle  removes  kerosene  lamp  from 

fire-frame .] 

An’  she  blushed  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 

When  her  new  meetin’  bunnit 
Felt  somehow,  thru  its  crown,  a pair 
O’  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

TABLEAU  II. 

That  night,  I tell  ye,  she  looked  some'! 

She  seemed  to’ve  got  a new  soul, 

For  she  felt  sartin  sure  he’d  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heerd  a foot,  an’  know’d  it  too, 

A-raspin’  on  the  scraper. 

[Hu Ida h looks  off,  and  appears  to  listen .] 

All  ways  to  once  her  feelin’s  flew, 

Like  sparks  on  burnt-up  paper. 

[Enter  Zekle.  There  must  be  good  pantomimic  ac- 
tion through  the  following  scene , illustrative  of  the 

text .] 

He  kin’  o’  Titered  on  the  mat. 

Some  doubtful  o’  the  sequel; 

His  heart  kep’  goin’  pitty  pat, — 

But  hem  went  pity  Zekle. 

An’  yit  she  gin  her  chair  a jerk, 

Ez  tho’  she  wished  him  furder, 

An’  on  her  apples  kep’  to  work, 

Parin’  away  like  murder. 

“ You  want  to  see  my  pa,  I s’poze?" 

“Wal — no — I come  dazignin’ — ” 

‘ To  see  my  ma  ?” 

[Narrow  curtain  drawn  aside , revealing ] • 

TABLEAU  III. 

“ She’s  sprinklin'  clo’es, 

Agin  to-morrow’s  i’nin'.” 


2I3 


£ Narrow  curtain  slipped  back.~\ 

To  say  why  gals  act  so  and  so, 

Or  don’t,  would  be  presumin’; 

Mebby  to  mean  Yes,  and  say  No, 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a spell  on  one  foot  fust, 

Then  stood  a spell  on  t’other, 

An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust, 

He  couldn’t  a told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he,  “ I’d  better  call  agin  ; ” 

Says  she,  “ Think  likely,  mister;” 

That  last  word  pricked  him  like  a pin, 

An’,  — wal,  he  up  an’  kist  her. 

[ Having  kissed  her , Zekle  draws  chair  up,  sits,  and 
lays  arm  across  back  of  chair . Huldah  looks  down 
bashfully , biting  fingers.  Enter  Ma,  stands  with  up- 
raised hands.  ] 

TABLEAU  IV. 

When  ma,  bimeby,  upon  ’em  slips, 

Huldah  sot,  pale  ez  ashes, 

All  kin’  o’  smily  ’round  the  lips, 

An’  teary  ’round  the  lashes. 

The  blood  dost  roun’  her  heart  felt  glued 
Too  tight  fur  all  expressin’, 

Till  mother  see  how  matters  stood, 

An’  gin  ’em  both  her  blessin’. 

CURTAIN. 

r Two  assistants  draw  off  two  scenes;  two  more 
table,  stool,  and  mat.  Huldah  puts  on  shawl  and  hat } 
Zekle  places  chairs  for  himself  and  Huldah;  four 
members  of  choir  come  in,  each  with  a chair ; leader 
brings  in  bass-viol;  minister  pushes  on  pulpit.  All 
fall  into  position .] 

For  she  was  just  the  quiet  kind, 

Whose  naturs’  never  vary, 

Like  streams  that  keep  a summer  wind 
Snow  hid  in  Janooary. 

2I4 


And  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 
Down  to  the  Bay  o’  Fundy, 

An’  all  I know  is 

[ Curtain  rises.] 

TABLEAU  V. 

they  was  cried 

In  meetin’  come  next  Sunday. 

[Arrangement  of  Tableau  V .] 

ZEKLE. 

TWO  MEN-SINGERS. 

leader.  minister. 

HULDAH. 

TWO  WOMEN-SINGERS. 

\The  leader  stands  by  his  bass-viol , listening  wMa 
'pleased  look  to  the  minister , who  holds  up  the  publish- 
ment of  the  intended  marriage , at  arm's  length , to  read. 
Zekle  looks  very  bashful;  first  man-singer  leans  for- 
ward and  -whispers  in  his  ear.  Second  man-singer 
and  first  -woman-singer  -whisper , she  pointing  -with  a 
fan  at  Huldah.  Huldah  turns  back  on  Zekle , and 
droops  head  modestly  on  one  side.  Second  -woman- 
singer  half  rises  to  look  across  at  the  blushing  couple.  J 

CURTAIN. 

TABLEAU  VI. 

[All  stand.  Minister  “ deacons  out,"  t-wo  lines  at  a 
time , the  following  verse.  Choir  sing , while  Zekle 
and  Huldah  are  covered  with  confusion , and  utterly 
unable  to  carry  their  parts.] 

This  is  the  way  I long  have  sought, 

And  mourned  because  I found  it  not ; 

And  now  I’m  in,  I’ll  never  stray, 

But  thank  my  stars  I’ve  found  the  way 

CURTAIN. 

215 


READY  SYMPATHY. 

G.  WEATHERLY. 

“ Auntie’s  crying,”  whispered  Clare, 
Looking  very  wise; 

“ See  her  sitting  over  there, 

Hiding  both  her  eyes.” 

“ Let  us  go  to  her,”  said  Kit, 

“ Little  we  can  do; 

P’rhaps  ’twill  cheer  her,  though,  a bit, 
If  we’re  sorry  too.” 

'“  Mother  kisses  tears  away 
When  we’re  hurt,”  said  Clare; 

“Let  us  too  kiss  Auntie  May; 

P’rhaps  then  she  won’t  care.” 

Standing  by  their  auntie’s  side, 

With  soft  hands  on  her, 

Just  to  make  her  look  they  tried; 
Auntie  did  not  stir. 

“Don’t  cry,  auntie,”  whispered  Kit; 

“ Don’t  cry,”  echoed  Clare. 

Auntie  May  still  seemed  to  sit 
Heedless  they  were  there. 

Kit  then  clambered  on  her  chair, 

’Neath  her  hands  to  peep. 

■“  Oh ! ” said  Kit,  and  “ Oh ! ” said  Clare, 
“ Auntie  is  asleep !” 


216 


SQUEERS’  SCHOOL. 


[From  Nicholas  Nickleby.] 

CHARACTERS. 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  an  Usher  in  Dotheboy  s Hall. 
Wackford  SQUEERS,  Sr.,  Master  of  Dotheboy  s 
Hall. 

Wackford  Squeers,  Jr.,  his  son. 

SMIKE,  a servant. 

Boys,  pupils  at  Dotheboy  s Hall. 

Mrs.  Squeers,  wife. 

Fanny,  her  daughter. 

COSTUMES. 

Nicholas — Shabby  genteel  costume. 

Squeers — Shabby  black  suit ; stock;  red  crop  wig. 
Wackford — Boy  s plain  suit. 

Smike — Ragged  and  tattered  costume. 

Boys — Ragged  and  dirty. 

Mrs.  Squeers — Slovenly  wrapper. 

Fanny — Plain  dress.  Red  curly  hair. 

SCENE  I. — (A  schoolroom.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Squeers , 
Fanny  and  Wackford  discovered .) 

Mr.  Squeers.  Well,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think 
of  him  by  this  time  ? 


219 


Mrs.  Squccrs.  Think  of  who? 

Mr.  S.  Of  the  young  man— the  new  teacher  — 
who  else  could  I mean? 

Mrs.  S.  Oh ! that  Knuckleboy.  I hate  him. 

Mr.  S.  What  do  you  hate  him  for,  my  dear? 

Mrs.  S.  What’s  that  to  you?  If  I hate  him, 
that’s  enough,  ain’t  it? 

Mr.  S.  Quite  enough  for  him,  my  dear,  and  a 
great  deal  too  much,  I dare  say,  if  he  knew  it.  I 
only  asked  from  curiosity,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  S.  Well,  then,  if  you  want  to  know,  I’ll 
tell  you.  Because  he’s  a proud,  haughty,  conse- 
quential, turned-up-nose  peacock. 

Mr.  S.  Hem!  He  is  cheap,  my  dear;  the 
young  man  is  very  cheap. 

Mrs.  S.  Not  a bit  of  it. 

Mr.  S.  Five  pound  a year. 

Mrs.  S.  What  of  that;  it’s  dear  if  you  don’t 
want  him,  isn’t  it? 

Mr.  S.  But  we  do  want  him. 

Mrs.  S.  I don’t  see  that  you  want  him  any 
more  than  the  dead.  Don’t  tell  me.  You  can  put 
on  the  cards  and  in  the  advertisements,  “ Educa- 
tion by  Mr.  Wackford  Squeersand  able  assistants,” 
without  having  any  assistants,  can’t  you  ? Isn’t  it 
done  every  day  by  all  the  masters  about  ? I have 
no  patience  with  you. 

Mr.  S.  Haven’t  you  ? I’ll  tell  you  what,  Mrs. 
Squeers,  in  this  matter  of  having  a teacher,  I’ll 
take  my  own  way,  if  you  please.  A slave  driver 
in  the  West  Indies  is  allowed  a man  under  him,  to 
see  that  his  blacks  don’t  run  away,  or  get  up  a re- 
bellion ; and  I’ll  have  a man  under  me  to  do  the 
same  with  our  blacks,  till  such  a time  as  W ackford 
is  able  to  take  charge  of  the  school. 

Wackford.  Am  I to  take  care  of  the  school  when 
I grow  up  a man,  father  ? 


Mr.  S.  You  are,  my  son. 

Wack.  Oh  my  eye,  won’t  I give  it  to  the  boys ! 
Oh,  father,  won’t  I make  ’em  squeak  again!  (Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Sqneers  laugh.  Squeers  gives  him  a 
penny.) 

Mrs.  S.  He’s  a nasty,  stuck  up  monkey,  that’s 
what  I consider  him. 

Mr.  S.  Supposing  he  is,  he  is  as  well  stuck  up 
in  our  schoolroom  as  anywhere  else,  isn’t  he  ? — es- 
pecially as  he  don’t  like  it. 

Mrs.  S.  Well,  there’s  something  in  that.  I 
hope  it’ll  bring  his  pride  down,  and  it  shall  be  no 
fault  of  mine  if  it  don’t. 

Fanny.  Who  is  this  proud  Knuckleboy  that 
gives  himself  such  airs? 

Mr.  S.  Nickleby ; your  mother  always  calls 
things  and  people  by  their  wrong  names. 

Mrs.  S.  No  matter  for  that,  I see  them  with 
right  eyes,  and  that’s  enough  for  me.  I watched 
him  when  you  were  laying  on  to  little  Bolder  this 
afternoon.  He  looked  as  black  as  thunder  all  the 
while,  and  one  time  started  up  as  if  he  had  more 
than  got  it  in  his  mind  to  make  a rush  at  you.  I 
saw  him,  though  he  thought  I didn’t. 

Fanny.  Never  mind  that,  father.  Who  is  the 
man  ? 

Mrs.  S.  Why,  your  father  has  got  some  non- 
sense in  his  head  that  he  is  the  son  of  a poor  gen- 
tleman who  died  the  other  day. 

Fanny.  The  son  of  a gentleman? 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  but  I don’t  believe  a word  of  it. 
If  he’s  a gentleman’s  son  at  all,  he’s  a foundling, 
that’s  my  opinion. 

Mr.  S.  He’s  nothing  of  the  kind,  for  his  father 
was  married  to  his  mother,  years  before  he  was 
born,  and  she  is  alive  now.  If  he  was,  it  would  be 

ii 


221 


no  business  of  ours,  for  we  make  a very  good 
friend  by  having  him  here  ; and  if  he  likes  to  learn 
the  boys  anything  besides  minding  them,  I have 
no  objection,  I am  sure. 

Mrs.  S.  I say  again,  I hate  him  worse  than 
poison. 

Mr.  S.  If  you  dislike  him,  my  dear,  I don’t 
know  anybody  who  can  show  dislike  any  better 
than  you,  and  of  course  there’s  no  occasion,  with 
him,  to  take  the  trouble  to  hide  it. 

Mrs.  S.  I don’t  intend  to,  1 assure  you. 

Mr.  S.  That’s  right ; and  if  he  has  a touch  of 
pride  about  him,  as  I think  he  has,  I don’t  believe 
there’s  a woman  in  all  England  that  can  bring  any- 
body’s  spirit  down  as  quick  as  you  can,  my  love. 
( Curtain ) 

Scene  ii. — ( Same  as  Scene  I.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Squeers  discovered ) 

Mr.  S.  Now  then,  are  you  going  to  sleep  all 
da)q  up  there  ? 

Mrs.  S.  You  lazy  hounds! 

Nicholas  Nickleby  {outside).  We  shall  be  down 
directly,  sir. 

Mr.  S.  Down  directly!  Ah!  you  had  better 
be  down  directly,  or  I’ll  be  down  upon  some  of  you 
in  less.  Where’s  that  Smike?  Smike  ! 

Mrs.  S.  Do  you  want  your  head  broke  in  a 
fresh  place,  Smike? 

Mr.  S.  Confound  his  impudence ! Nickleby ! 

Nick  Well,  sir.  {outside) 

Mr.  S.  Send  that  obstinate  scoundrel  down; 
don’t  you  hear  me  calling? 

Nick,  {outside)  He  is  not  here,  sir. 

Mr.  S.  Don’t  tell  me  a lie.  He  is. 

Nick,  {outside,  angrily)  He  is  not;  don’t  tell 
me  one. 


Mr.  S.  We  shall  soon  see  that.  I’ll  find  him,  1 
warrant  you.  (Exit  R.  Enter  Nickleby,  R.  Squeers 
comes  back.  Exit  Mrs.  Squeers , Li)  What  does 
this  mean?  Where  have  you  hid  him? 

Nick.  I have  seen  nothing  of  him  since  last 
night. 

Mr.  5.  Come,  you  won’t  save  him  this  way. 
Where  is  he? 

Nick.  At  the  bottom  of  the  nearest  pond,  for 
aught  I know. 

Mr.  S.  D — n you,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  ? 
Boys  ! ( Boys  come  in  and  huddle  together.)  Do  any 

of  you  know  where  Smike  is? 

Boy.  Please  sir,  I think  Smike’s  run  away,  sir. 
Mr.  S.  Ha!  Who  said  that? 

Boys.  Tompkins,  please  sir.  ( Squeers  rushes  at 
Tompkins  and  takes  him  by  the  collar .) 

Mr.  5.  You  think  he  has  run  away,  do  you, 
sir  ? 

Boy.  Yes,  please  sir. 

Mr.  S.  { whips  boy.)  There.  Now  if  any  other 
boy  thinks  Smike  has  run  away,  I should  be  glad 
to  have  a talk  with  him.  Well,  Nickleby,  you 
think  he  has  run  away,  I suppose? 

Nick.  { quietly. ) I think  it  is  extremely  likely. 

Mr.  S.  {sneering.)  Oh,  you  do,  do  you  ? Maybe 
you  know  he  has? 

Nick.  I know  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Mr.  S.  He  didn’t  tell  you  he  was  going,  I sup- 
pose, did  he  ? 

Nick.  He  did  not.  I am  very  glad  he  did  not, 
for  it  would  have  been  my  duty  to  have  warned 
you  in  time. 

Mr.  S.  {tauntingly.)  Which,  no  doubt,  you  would 
have  been  very  sorry  to  do. 

Nick.  I should  indeed.  You  interpret  my  feel- 
ings with  great  accuracy.  {Enter  Mrs.  5.) 

223 


Mrs.  S.  What's  all  this  here-to-do?  What  or 
earth  are  you  talking  to  him  for,  Squeery  ? 

Mr.  S.  Why,  my  dear,  the  fact  is,  S’  ike  is  not 
to  be  found. 

Mrs.  S.  Well,  I know  that,  and  where’s  the 
wonder?  If  you  get  a parcel  of  proud-stomach 
teachers  that  set  young  dogs  rebelling,  what  else 
can  you  look  for  ? Now,  young  man,  you  just  have 
the  kindness  to  take  yourself  off  to  the  other  room, 
and  take  the  boys  off  with  you,  and  don’t  you  stir 
out  of  there  till  you  have  leave  given  you,  or  you 
and  I may  fall  out  in  a way  that  may  spoil  your 
beauty,  handsome  as  you  think  yourself,  and  so  I 
tell  you. 

Nick.  Indeed ! 

Mrs.  S.  Yes;  and  indeed  and  indeed  again,  Mr. 
Jackanapes ; and  I wouldn’t  keep  such  as  you  in 
the  house  another  hour,  if  I had  my  way. 

Nick.  Nor  would  you  if  I had  mine.  Now. 
boys ! 

Mrs.  S.  {mimicking  him.)  Ah!  Now  boys!  Fol- 
low your  leader,  boys,  and  take  pattern  by  Smike, 
if  you  dare.  See  what  he’ll  get  for  himself,  when 
he’s  brought  back ; and  mind ! I tell  you  that  you 
shall  have  as  bad,  if  you  so  much  as  open  your 
mouths  about  him. 

Mr.  S.  If  I catch  him,  I’ll  only  stop  short  of 
flaying  him  alive.  I give  you  notice,  boys. 

Mrs.  S.  If  you  catch  him,  you  are  sure  to  ; you 
can’t  help  it,  if  you  go  the  right  way  to  work. 
Come  ! Away  with  you  ! ( Nickleby  and  boys  exit 

L.)  He  is  off.  The  cow  house  and  stable  are 
locked  up,  so  he  can’t  be  there  ; and  he’s  not  down 
stairs  anywhere,  for  the  girl  has  looked.  He  must 
have  gone  York  way,  and  by  a public  road,  too. 

Mr.  S.  Why  must  he? 

224 


Mrs . 5.  Stupid  ! He  hadn’t  any  money,  had  he? 

Mr.  S.  Never  had  a penny  of  his  own  in  his 
life,  that  1 know  of. 

Mrs.  S.  To  be  sure,  and  he  didn’t  take  anything 
to  eat  with  him,  that  I’ll  answer  for.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mr.  S.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mrs.  S.  Then  of  course  he  must  beg  his  way, 
and  he  could  not  do  that  nowhere  but  on  the  pub- 
lic road. 

Mr.  S.  That’s  true.  ( clapping  his  hands.) 

Mrs.  S.  True!  Yes;  but  you  would  never 
have  thought  of  it,  if  I hadn’t  said  so.  Now  if 
you  take  the  chaise  and  go  one  road,  and  I borrow 
Swallow’s  chaise  and  go  the  other,  what  with 
keeping  our  eyes  open,  and  asking  questions,  one 
or  other  of  us  is  pretty  certain  to  lay  hold  of  him. 
(Curtain.) 

Scene  hi.—  (Same  as  Scenes  I.  and  II.  Nickleby 
and  boys  discovered .) 

Squeers.  (outside.)  Lift  him  out.  Bring  him  in ; 
bring  him  in  ! 

Mrs.  S.  (out side .)  Take  care.  We  tied  his  legs 
under  the  apron,  and  made  him  fast  to  the  chaise 
to  prevent  his  giving  us  the  slip  again.  (Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Squeers  enter  L.,  dragging  in  Smike  between 
the  mi) 

Mr.  S.  Is  every  boy  here?  Each  boy  keep  his 
place.  Nickleby  ! to  your  desk,  sir.  (Nickleby  goes 
to  his  desk,  R.)  Smike,  you  hound,  have  you  any- 
thing to  say  for  yourself  ? 

Nick.  1 have  a long  series  of  insults  to  avenge ; 
and  my  indignation  is  aggravated  by  the  dastardly 
cruelties  practiced  on  helpless  infancy  in  this  foul 
den.  Have  a care ; for  if  you  do  raise  the  devil 
within  me,  the  consequences  shall  fall  heavily 
upon  your  own  head  ! (Squeers  gives  a howl  and 


spits  on  N ickleby,  who  snatches  whip  from  Squeers. 
N ickleby  knocks  Squeers  down  and  chastises  him.  Mrs. 
Squeers  tries  to  drag  queers  away  by  his  coat  tails. 
Fanny  and  Wackford pitch  on  to  Nickleby .) 

DISPOSITION  OF  CHARACTERS. 

R.  R.  C.  C.  L.  C.  L. 

Boys.  Wack.  Nick.  Squeers.  Mrs.  S.  Fanny. 


SEPTEMBER. 

GRACE  courtland. 

A shadowy  veil  is  gathering  on  the  hills, 

The  autumn  winds  are  stealing  from  the  south; 

The  thirsty  pastures  drink  the  lazy  rills 
Where  butterflies  are  winging  merry  rout. 

The  thistle-down  is  drifting  on  the  breeze, 

And  misty  cobwebs  fill  the  dreamy  air; 

The  faintest  blush  of  nature  in  the  trees 
Hath  flamed  the  golden  aster’s  hair. 

In  stubble  fields  the  garnered  wheat 
Bespeaks  the  fruitful  harvest  o’er, 

Where  burdened  branches  bend  to  greet 
The  sweeping  orchard’s  wasted  store. 

In  leafy  groves  the  locust’s  call 
Is  answering  to  the  drone  of  bees ; 

The  flowers  are  fading,  and  the  fall 
Is  creeping  o’er  the  upland  leas. 

22  6 


EXERCISE  FOR  NEW  YEAR’S  EVE. 

LIZZIE  M.  HADLEY. 

Several  children.  One  representing  Time,  and  holding  an 
hour-glass.  The  Old  Year  stands  beside  a half-open  door. 
New  Year  enters  by  a doer  opposite. 

1.  One  of  the  group  of  children  speaks. 

2.  Speaks  to  Time,  who  holds  up  hour-glass. 

3.  Speaks  to  Old  Year. 

4.  Old  Year  speaks. 

5.  Bells  in  the  distance. 

6.  Old  Year  passes  out. 

7.  One  of  the  group  of  children. 

8.  Another  child  in  same  group. 

9.  The  New  Year — a boy  with  long,  yellow  hair — enters. 
All  the  children  together. 

10.  New  Year  speaks. 

11.  Enter  twelve  children  to  represent  the  months. 

12.  Enter  four  children  to  represent  the  number  of  weeks 
in  a month. 

13.  Enter  seven  children  to  represent  the  days  of  the  week. 

1.  Under  the  drifting  winter  snow 
The  earth  is  fast  asleep. 

And  high  above,  in  the  steel-blue  sky, 

The  pale  stars  vigils  keep. 


229 


2.  Lift  up  your  glass,  old  Father  Time, 

Let  us  see  how  the  bright  grains  flow, 
For  close  by  your  side  a pallid  form, 

The  Old  Year  waits  to  go. 

3.  O year  so  feeble  and  bent  and  old, 

Before  the  New  Year’s  heard — 

Your  time  is  short — yet  ere  you  go 
Wouldst  say  a parting  word? 

4.  Y es,  well  I know  my  time  is  brief, 

My  sands  are  almost  gone, 

No  more  for  me  on  sea  or  land 
Shall  dawn  another  morn. 

It  matters  not.  My  day  is  o’er, 

I’ll  take  my  needed  rest. 

The  work  God  sent  me  here  to  do 
Is  done.  I’ve  tried  my  best 

To  do  it  well.  Now,  weak  and  worn, 

I lay  my  burden  down, 

And  gladly  to  the  New  Year  give 
My  glitt’ring  golden  crown. 

He’s  coming  full  of  life  and  hope, 

A careless,  happy  boy, 

Dost  think  that  one  so  blithe  and  gay 
Would  bring  thee  aught  but  joy? 


O,  friends,  believe  whate’er  he  brings, 
He  only  does  God’s  will, 

He  sends  in  mercy  joy  or  grief, 
Believe  and  trust  Him  still. 


230 


5.  But  hark!  from  every  steeple  now 
I hear  the  glad  bells  ring, 

The  last  grain  falls,  my  time  is  o’er, 
Farewell!  the  New  Year’s  King.  6. 

7.  There’s  a quaint  and  curious  legend 

That  when  the  Old  Year  dies, 

He  wings  his  course  away  from  earth 
Straight  up  to  Paradise.. 

Ancl  waits  outside  the  pearly  gates 
Till  Peter  turns  the  key, 

And  then  within  the  golden  streets 
He  bends  a lowly  knee. 

Before  the  great  white  throne  he  shows 
The  record  of  the  year, 

Wherein  all  deeds,  the  good  and  bad, 
Must  every  one  appear. 

He  sees  it  sealed,  its  secret  hid, 

Till  that  last  dreadful  day, 

When  sun  and  moon,  and  earth  and  sky, 
Shall  surely  pass  away. 

And  then  among  the  phantom  years 
That  vanished  one  by  one, 

He  takes  his  place,  a shadow  form, 

His  earthly  work  all  done. 

8.  Perchance  ’tis  true,  for  in  God’s  Book 

We  read  that  all  we  say, 

The  ghost  of  foolish  words  and  deeds, 
Shall  meet  us  that  last  day. 


231 


All  recite. — “ I say  unto  you,  that  every  idle  word 
that  men  shall  speak,  they  shall  give  account  thereof 
in  the  day  of  judgment.” — Matt,  xii,  36. 


9.  But  see  the  brave  young  King  appears, 

A bright-eyed,  sturdy  boy; 

We  greet  you  kindly,  fair  young  sir, 

And  wish  you  every  joy. 

10.  Thanks  for  your  greeting,  friends, 

I hear  the  merry  bells  a-ringing, 

And  high  and  low  throughout  the  land 
The  New  Years’s  praises  singing. 

9.  Just  as  they  welcomed  him  who  now 
Passed  through  yon  open  door, 

Just  so  they’ll  welcome  him  who’ll  come 
When  my  brief  reign  is  o’er. 

Well,  let  it  pass,  it  matters  not, 

Life’s  journey’s  but  begun, 

I’ll  do  my  work,  and  when  ’tis  o’er 
I’ll  hear  Him  say,  “ Well  done.” 

All  recite. — “Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant; 
thou  hast  been  faithful  over  a few  things,  I will  make 
thee  ruler  over  many  things ; enter  thou  into  the  joy  of 
thy  Lord.” — Matt,  xxv,  21. 

All  the  children  together. — 

Behold,  there  slowly  comes  this  way 
A strange  and  curious  crew, 

The  seasons,  months,  the  weeks  and  days 
Come  marching  into  view. 


232 


Seasons  together.- 

11.  We  are  the  seasons  blithe  and  bold, 

Summer’s  heat  and  winter’s  cold, 

Spring’s  warm  sunshine,  birds  and  showers, 
Autumn’s  painted  leaves  and  flowers; 

He  who  dwells  in  endless  day 
Started  us  upon  our  way, 

And  not  till  time  shall  be  no  more 
Shall  our  long  day  of  work  be  o’er. 

All  on  stage. — “ While  the  earth  remaineth,  seed- 
time and  harvest,  and  cold  and  heat,  and  summer 
and  winter,  and  day  and  night  shall  not  cease.” — 
Gen.  viii,  22. 

Months  together. — 

12.  We  are  the  months,  time’s  henchmen  true, 

Ever  ready  his  work  to  do  ; 

We  lock  the  rivers,  ponds,  and  lakes, 

We  sift  the  earth  with  feathery  flakes  ; 

The  brown  buds  swell  and  the  green  leaves  come, 
We  bring  the  insects’  drowsy  hum, 

The  autumn  fruits  and  the  ripened  grain, 

Then  Winter’s  snowy  reign  again, 

And  whatever  work  you  give  we’ll  do, 

For  we  are  your  servants  brave  and  true. 

9.  Well  said,  well  said,  O months  so  true, 

Well  said,  my  servants  bold, 

Be  sure  to  its  own  time  ye  give 
The  hours  of  heat  and  cold. 

All  on  stage.- — “Thou  hast  set  all  the  borders  of 
the  earth ; thou  hast  made  summer  and  winter.” 
— Ps.  lxxix,  17. 


233 


Weeks  together. — 

13*  We  are  the  weeks.  See  us  march  along, 

Sometimes  we’ve  a story,  and  sometimes  a song  ; 
W e’re  not  very  big,  but  ’twill  only  take 
Four  of  our  number  a month  to  make. 

Now,  bonny  young  king,  we  have  come  to-day 

To  help  you  along  your  toilsome  way  ; 

No  sunny  and  flowery  path  you’ll  tread, 

’ Tis  narrow  and  thorny  and  rough  instead  ; 

Of  sorrow  and  trouble  you’ll  have  your  share, 

It  will  bend  your  form  and  whiten  your  hair, 

But  remember,  however  hard  it  may  be, 

You  are  working  for  all  eternity. 

All  on  stage. — “ Be  strong,  all  ye  people  of  the  land 
saith  the  Lord,  and  work  ; for  I am  with  you,  saith 
the  Lord  of  hosts.” — Hag.  ii,  4. 

JYeiu  Year. — 

What  care  I though  my  locks  o’  gold 
Are  shorn  of  all  their  beauty  ? 

Why  should  I fear  old  Father  Time  ? 

I’ve  come  to  do  my  duty, 

To  right  old  wrongs,  to  help  the  weak, 

And  do  the  Father’s  will ; 

O weeks  and  months,  I’ll  need  your  help 
To  every  task  fulfill. 

All  on  stage. — “I  must  work  the  works  of  Him  that 
sent  me,  while  it  is  day.” — John  ix,  4. 

Days  together. — 

14.  We  are  the  days,  come  hand  in  hand, 

234 


Marching  together,  a happy  band, 

Made  up  of  shade  and  sunshine,  we, 

The  fairest  of  this  company  ; 

Seven  sisters,  good  and  true, 

O King,  we  come  to  welcome  you  ; 

We’re  little  ones,  yet  well  we  know 
We  each  can  help  you  here  below, 

Help  to  right  some  bitter  wrong, 

Help  to  make  some  weak  one  strong, 

Help  you  lighten  some  one’s  sorrow, 

Help  ring  in  that  golden  morrow, 

When  aff  heaven  and  earth  shall  sing 
Praises  to  our  Heavenly  King. 

All  on  stage. — “ O,  let  the  nations  be  glad  and  sing 
for  joy.” — Ps.  lxvii,  4. 

[Seasons,  Months , Weeks  and  Days , all  join  hands 
and  march  round  the  New  Year , reciting  together  :] 

So  we,  your  servants  tried  and  true, 

Do  every  one  appear, 

Our  seasons,  months,  our  weeks  and  days 
Make  up  your  little  year. 

New  Year. — 

O,  gather  around,  months  and  weeks, 

O days,  come  around  me  too, 

We  are  starting  out  on  our  journey  now, 

And  we  all  have  a work  to  do. 

Let  us  do  it  so  wisely  and  do  it  so  well 
That  angels  who  watch  us  will  hasten  to  tell 
To  the  saints  up  in  Heaven  the  wonderful  story, 
And  the  Father  who  reigneth  forever  in  glory 


235 


Shall  whisper,  when  all  of  our  work  is  complete, 
And  we  stand  on  Death’s  threshold  with  world- 
weary  feet, 

Come  hither,  O year,  and  each  month,  week  and 
day, 

In  Heaven  above  there’s  a mansion  for  aye. 

All  recite. — “ In  my  Father’s  house  are  many  man- 
sions.”— John  xiv,  2. 


THE  EASTER  WREATH. 

CLARA  J.  DENTON. 


A service  in  verse  for  nine  girls. 
CHARACTERS. 

Faith,  Hope,  Love, 

Lily,  White  Carnation,  Eupatorium, 

Narcissus,  Snowdrop,  Crocus. 

COSTUMES. 

Simple  white  dresses  for  all  the  characters.  Those  per- 
sonating the  different  flowers  should  be  decorated  with  the 
blossoms  they  represent;  they  must  also  carry  wreaths  of  the 
same. 

Faith,  Hope  and  Love  may  carry  in  the  hand  or  wear 
across  the  bosom  emblems  appropriate  to  their  several  charac- 
ters. Thus:  Faith,  a cross;  Hope,  an  anchor;  Love,  three  rings 
intertwined.  These  emblems  may  be  made  of  pasteboard  and 
covered  with  evergreens  or  gilt  paper,  as  most  convenient;  or, 
if  preferred,  they  may  be  omitted  altogether. 

[ Faith , Hope  and  Love  advance  while  slow,  soft  music  is 
playing  and  take  their  places  in  the  centre  with  their 
arms  about  each  other.  When  the  music  ceases  they 
recite  together  the  following  lines : ] 

Now,  Faith,  Hope  and  Love 
Should  to-day  abound, 

In  each  Christian’s  heart 
May  we  all  be  found. 

This  the  Christian’s  feast, 

Only  He  can  know 


237 


Why  the  Easter  Day 
Does  our  reign  foreshow. 

O,  most  happy  day, 

Crown  of  all  the  year, 

How  shall  thought  and  deed, 

Malce  our  joy  appear  ? 

[ They  step  apart , Faith  and  Hope  branching  out  to 
right  of  centre.  Somewhat  back  of  centre  a table 
or  reading-desk  is  placed.  It  should  be  draped  with 
white  and  trimmed  with  evergreens?\ 

Faith. — 

Faith  would  point  the  heart 
To  the  Lord  of  all, 

Who  has  set  us  free 

From  death’s  cruel  thrall. 

Hope. — 

All  the  hope  fulfilled, 

That  this  day  doth  hold, 

This  poor  speech  of  mine 
Never  can  unfold. 

Love. — 

O’er  the  wide  earth  Love 
Sends  a benison 
For  the  ransom  free 
By  our  Saviour  won. 

All.— 

Then  let  earth  to-day 
Her  best  offerings  bring, 

Flowers,  fair  and  sweet, 

Touched  by  Love’s  white  wing. 

238 


For  their  soft  perfume, 
Floating  on  the  air, 
All  the  Christian’s  joy 
Seems  afar  to  bear. 


[ Soft  music  is  now  played  and  the  six  flowers  advance  in 
single  file  and  in  the  order  that  their  recitations  are 
given.  When  the  Lily  is  in  front  of  the  table  or  desk 
before  mentioned,  they  all  stand,  the  music  ceases , and 
they  recite  together  the  following  lines.  ] 


We  are  the  flowers,  tp  mortals  dear, 
Coming  with  hidden  perfume  here 
To  celebrate  this  Easter  Day, 

Where  gladsome  Christians  kneei  and  pray. 
If  brighter  grows  at  our  behest 
The  star  of  Hope  in  one  sad  breast, 

If  higher  soar  Faith’s  snowy  wings, 

Lifting  the  soul  from  earthly  things, 

If  Christian  hearts  more  closely  cling 
Because  our  presence  here  we  bring, 

Our  humble  praise  to  Him  we  give 
By  whose  all-loving  power  we  live. 


Love. — 


But,  tell  us,  flowers  fair,  we  pray, 

Your  names  who  grace  this  Easter  Day. 


Lily.— 

I,  the  lily,  fair  as  snow, 

With  my  upheld  cup  I show 
Weary  ones  that  God  above 
Watches  o’er  us  with  His  love. 


mm 


White  Carnation. — 

White  Carnation,  sweet  am  I, 

Mark  my  fragrance  wafted  by. 

Like  a prayer  that  upward  speeds 
To  His  ear  that  ever  heeds. 

Eupatorium. 

Eupatorium,  my  name, 

And  the  “ Easter  flower  ” my  claim, 
Resurrection’s  hope  I show, 

Though  the  earth  is  wrapped  in  snow. 

Narcissus. — 

I,  Narcissus,  smiling  nigh, 

Once  the  “Rose  of  Sharon”  I, 

Type  of  Him  who  broke  in  twain 
Sin’s  relentless,  deadly  chain. 

Snowdrop. — 

I,  the  Snowdrop,  hiding  low; 

Living  on  beneath  the  snow; 

So  God’s  promises  abide, 

Though  the  clouds  His  smiling  hide. 

Crocus. — 

I,  the  Crocus,  first  to  bring 
News  of  earth’s  awakening; 

So  the  bonds  of  death  shall  break 
From  the  soul  for  Jesus’  sake. 

Faith. — 

O ye  flowers,  ’tis  true  to-day, 

That  ye  turn  the  heart  away 
From  this  earth  and  all  its  woe, 

All  its  dross  and  empty  show. 


Hope.— 

And  the  helpers  thus  are  ye, 

Of  ourselves,  the  mystic  three. 

Making  all  this  Easter  time 
Echo  joy  and  peace  sublime. 

All  the  floivers. — 

To  Faith,  Hope  and  Love  we  bring, 

From  hearts  sincere  an  offering, 

Upon  the  shrine  we  humbly  lay 
An  Easter  wreath  this  gladsome  day. 

[Soft  music  is  now  played  while  the  flowers  march  slowly 
around  the  table , each  laying  her  wreath  upon  it.  Lily 
returns  to  her  place  in  front  of  the  table , the  others  tak- 
mg positions  around  it  at  regular  intervals;  thus,  when 
the  last  wreath  is  deposited,  the  flowers  will  form  a 
circle  or  wreath  around  the  table.  The  music  ceases, 
and  all  of  the  characters  recite  in  unison  the  following 
lines:'] 

Let  the  joyful  tidings  o’er  the  wide  earth  run, 

Christ  for  us  the  victory  over  death  hath  won, 

Yes,  from  tongue  to  tongue  let  the  glad  news  speed, 
Hark!  “ Christ  is  arisen,”  “ Christ  is  risen,  indeed!  ” 

Faith. — Yes,  “ Christ  is  arisen.’* 

Hope. — “ Is  arisen.” 

Love. — “ Is  risen,  indeed.” 

All  the  flowers. — “ Christ  is  risen,  indeed.” 

All  retire  to  soft  music. 


241 


THE  FALLING  LEAVES. 


A blithe  red  squirrel  sat  under  a tree, 

When  the  leaves  were  falling  adown,  adown ; 

Some  were  golden,  some  were  red, 

And  some  were  a russet-brown. 

“ If  only  these  leaves  were  nuts,”  thought  he, 

“ What  a rich  little  squirrel  I should  be.” 

A sweet  little  baby  sat  under  a tree, 

When  the  leaves  were  falling  adown,  adown ; 
They  fell  in  his  lap,  they  danced  on  his  toes, 

And  they  tickled  his  little  bald  crown. 

He  lifted  his  arms,  and  crowed  with  glee : 

“ Thev’re  birdies,  mamma,  all  flying  to  me.” 

Some  poor  little  flowers  lay  under  a tree, 

When  the  leaves  were  falling  adown,  adown; 

And  they  thought  of  the  cold,  bleak,  wintry  days, 

And  the  snow-king’s  angry  frown. 

But  the  leaves  called  out,  “We’re  coming,  you  see, 
To  tuck  you  in  as  snug  as  can  be.” 

A shy  white  bunny  sat  under  a tree, 

But  the  snow  flakes  were  falling  adown,  adown ; 

The  w'ise  red  sqirrel  had  scampered  away, 

And  the  baby  had  gone  to  town. 

So  he  lifted  the  cover  a trifle  to  see, 

And  the  flowers  were  sleeping  as  sound  as  could  be. 

242 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
i OF  ILLINOIS 


NOTHING  LIKE  TRYING. 


after  all,  is  a kindly  affair, 
Why  is  it  stupid  and  not  worth 
Striving  and  getting  won’t  drive 
Try  giving. 


the  living? 
away  care, 


Scowling  and  growling  will  make  a man  old; 

Money-and  fame  at  the  best  are  beguiling, 

Don  t be  suspicious,  and  selfish  and  cold, 

Try  smiling. 

Happiness  stands  like  a maid  at  your  gate, 

v hy  should  you  think  you  will  find  her  by  rov 
mg  ? J 

Never  was  greater  mistake  than  to  hate ; 

Try  loving. 


WHEN  I’M  A WOMAN. 

A DIALOGUE. — (FOR  SEVEN  LITTLE  GIRLS.) 

1st. — Nobody  knows  how  I want  to  grow, 

How  I count  the  days  as  they  come  and  go, 
Wishing  and  wishing  that  time  had  wings, 
For  I’ve  made  up  my  mind  to  do  great  things, 
When  I’m  a woman! 

I mean  to  grow  fresher  year  by  year, 

And  I’ll  be  so  smart  that  the  people  here 
Shall  ask  how  I manage  so. 

245 


! f / 


2 d.  — When  I’m  a woman  I mean  to  show 

What  wonderful  things  a woman  can  know; 
I’ll  know  French  and  German  to  write  and 
speak, 

And  read  all  those  funny  old  books  in  Greek, 
Besides  what  there  are  in  Latin  ; 

I won’t  take  a minute  to  work  or  play, 

But  I’ll  study  by  night  and  I’ll  study  by  day, 
To  show  what  a woman  can  do  ! 

3 d.  — A writer  I’ll  be,  and  I’ll  engage 
To  write  not  a single  stupid  page, 

But  funny,  short  stories  for  girls  and  boys, 
And  songs  to  be  sung  with  a good  deal  of 
noise, 

And  marvelous  fairy  tales! 

I know  all  the  children  will  buy  my  books, 
And  I’ll  write  some,  top,  for  the  older  folks; 

In  the  newspapers,  first,  T guess, 
Letters,  perhaps,  from  over  the  sea, 

To  tell  the  strange  things  that  have  happened 
to  me, 

And  how  the  queer  people  dress. 

Oik, — Such  a famous  housekeeper  I will  be, 

That  all  the  ladies  will  call  to  see 
How  ever  I make  such  beautiful  bread, 

For  all  my  household  shall  be  well  fed 
When  I’m  a woman. 

Oh  ! the  sweet  jellies  and  creams  I’ll  make ; 
And  of  daintiest  puddings,  and  pies,  and 
cake, 

I will  always  have  great  store. 

My  kitchen  floor  shall  be  snowy  white, 

And  everything  else  shall  be  just  right 
That  you  find  inside  my  door. 

246 


When  it  isn’t  too  stormy  Tor  men  to  go  out ; 
I’ll  show  them  their  sphere,  and  the  woman’s, 
too, 

And  tell  the  young  girls  what  they  ought  to 
do 

When  they  are  women. 

I’ll  let  people  see  why  the  world  goes  wrong, 
And  make  them  all  hope  that  it  won’t  be  long 
Before  women  can  have  their  way  ; 
Freedom  to  lecture,  to  vote,  to  preach, 

To  do  everything  within  their  reach, 

We  surely  will  have  some  day! 

6M, — I’ll  be  a milliner,  wrapped  in  a cloud 

Of  laces  and  ribbons,  and  sought  by  a crowd 
Of  beautiful  ladies  in  velvet  and  pearls, 

Who  want  exquisite  hats  for  their  dear  little 
girls, 

In  styles  just  fresh  from  Paris. 

Such  ravishing  bonnets  as  I’ll  invent 
Have  never  been  seen  on  this  continent ! 

And  for  customers  to  prepare  them, 

I’ll  have  dozens  of  girls  sewing  night  and  day 
For  fear  the  new  fashions  will  grow  passee 
Before  folks  get  a chance  to  wear  them. 

Jth. — When  I’m  a woman,  a teacher  I’ll  be, 

And  l hope  I’ll  often  have  company ; 

For  I think  the  scholars  improve  the  best 
When  committees  and  parents  show  interest. 
When  I am  a woman 

1 expect  that  teachers  will  have  great  pay, 
And  won’t  work  more  than  three  hours  a day, 
And  vacations  will  be  so  long! 

I’ll  caution  my  scholars  to  take  great  care 


To  study  no  more  than  their  health  will  bear. 
For  that  would  be  very  wrong. 

All.-  -When  we  are  women,  you  then  will  see 
The  useful  things  that  women  can  be. 

— Lucy  B.  IViggin  in  Good  Times. 


THE  CHILDREN  OF  STORY  LAND. 

Marian.  Why,  how  strange  ! Here  is  the  gate 
at  the  back  of  our  garden,  and  just  beyond  there 
are  thick  woods.  I never  saw  them  there  before. 
Can  all  these  trees  have  grown  up  in  a single  night, 
like  Jack’s  bean-stalk?  I will  go  a little  further, 
and  see  what  it  means.  Oh,  there  is  a little  girl, 
with  a red  cloak  and  hood.  Can  it  be — but  no, 
that  was  only  a story.  ( Enter  Red  Riding-Hood .) 

R.  R.  Welcome,  little  stranger.  Welcome  to 
Story  Land. 

M.  Oh,  is  that  the  name  of  this  beautiful  new 
country  ? And  who  are  you  ? It  seems  as  if  I had 
seen  you  before. 

R.  R.  They  call  me  little  Red  Riding-Hood.  1 
am  going  to  carry  this  pat  of  butter  to  my  grand- 
mother,  and  I shall  be  glad  of  your  company.  It 
is  not  far. 

M.  Why,  I thought  the  wolf  killed  you  and  ate 
you  up. 

R.  A.  Oh,  no ! I am  as  much  alive  as  ever,  you 
see.  The  fact  is,  Jack  the  Giant  Killer  came  in 
and  killed  the  wolf,  before  he  had  a chance  to  do 
me  any  harm. 

M.  And  didn’t  the  wolf  eat  up  your  grand- 
mother either  ? 

R.  R.  No  ; she  had  hidden  in  the  closet.  She  is 
alive  and  well  yet. 


248 


M.  I think  I will  not  take  that  walk  with  you 
now.  I am  afraid  of  the  wolves. 

R.  R.  You  need  not  be,  for  since  Jack  the  Giant 
Killer  came  to  live  here,  ever  so  many  years  ago, 
not  a wolf  dares  to  show  his  face.  Jack  would 
soon  dispose  of  them. 

M.  How  old  are  you,  Red  Riding-Hood? 

R.  R.  I suppose  I must  be  several  hundred  years 
old,  but  I feel  about  seven.  Children  never  grow 
old  in  Story  Land. 

M.  How  funny ! And  when  did  all  these  trees 
grow  up  ? I never  saw  them  before. 

R.  R.  They  are  always  here,  but  you  cannot  al- 
ways see  them.  They  are  visible  only  when  you 
come  through  the  right  gate. 

M.  I came  through  our  garden  gate. 

R.  R.  But  you  must  have  opened  the  other  at 
the  same  time  or  you  wouldn’t  be  here. 

M.  What  gate  is  that? 

R.  R.  The  gate  that  opens  into  Story  Land. 

M.  Let  us  sit  down  under  this  tree  and  talk 
about  it. 

R.  R.  I cannot  now,  because  grandmother  will 
be  expecting  me.  But  here  comes  somebody  who 
can  tell  you  more,  if  you  want  to  know.  Good-bye. 
{Exit.  Enter  Cinderella .) 

C.  I wish  I could  see  her  now,  right  here  in  this 
wood. 

M.  Who? 

C.  Oh,  I didn’t  know  any  one  was  here.  Only 
my  fairy  godmother. 

M.  Why,  I really  believe  you  are — Who  are 
you  ? 

C.  Only  Cinderella. 

M.  Where  are  your  glass  slippers  ? 

C.  One  of  them  is  in  my  pocket.  I have  lost  the 
other. 

249 


M.  And  are  you  married  to  the  Prince? 

C.  I married  ? Why,  I am  not  old  enough  yet. 
But  perhaps  I shall  marry  a prince  when  I grow 
up. 

M.  Why  do  you  want  to  see  your  fairy  god- 
mother ? 

C.  Because  she  always  tells  me  what  to  do,  when 
I am  in  difficulty. 

M.  Are  you  in  difficulty  now  ? 

C.  Yes,  they  have  set  me  some  very  hard  work 
to  do. 

M.  Poor  little  girl,  I am  just  as  sorry  for  you  as 
I can  be. 

C.  You  need  not  be,  because  I have  a fairy  god- 
mother, and  there  are  good  times  coming.  There 
always  are  in  Story  Land.  ( Enter  Little  Boy  Blue , 
who  lays  himself  down  under  a tree.) 

M.  Tell  me,  who  that  is  lying  down  there,  with 
a horn  in  his  hand  ? 

C.  Oh,  that  is  Little  Boy  Blue.  He  is  the  sleep- 
iest fellow  you  ever  saw.  Set  him  to  watch  the 
sheep  indeed  ! I wonder  his  master  doesn’t  dis- 
charge him.  I mean  to  startle  him  before  I go. 
Little  Boy  Blue,  why  are  you  sleeping  there?  The 
sheep  are  in  the  meadow,  and  the  cows  are  tramp- 
ling down  all  your  master’s  corn. 

L.  B.  B.  Oh,  dear ! Can’t  a fellow  ever  catch  a 
nap  without  having  that  dinned  in  his  ears  ? {Exit, 
rubbing  his  eyes.) 

C.  The  trouble  with  him  is  he  was  born  in  the 
land  of  Nod,  and  never  fairly  woke  up  since  he 
came  here. 

M.  The  Land  of  Nod?  Where  is  that? 

C.  ft  lies  just  east  of  Story  Land.  But  I must 
go,  or  they  will  be  calling  me.  {Exit.  Enter 
Goody  Two  Shoes). 


250 


G.  T.  S.  Two  shoes!  Two  shoes!  What  a 
lucky  girl  I am  ! 

M.  What  is  your  name,  little  girl  ? 

G.  T.  S.  My  real  name  is  Margaret  Meanwell, 
but  1 am  known  as  Goody  Two  Shoes. 

M.  Oh,  are  you!  Pray  tell  me  why  you  are 
called  so. 

G.  T.  S.  1 used  to  be  so  poor  that  I could  not 
afford  to  wear  two  shoes.  So,  when  I had  a new 
pair,  l wore  first  one  on  my  right  foot  then  the 
other  on  my  left,  till  they  were  worn  out.  I always 
put  my  best  foot  foremost.  But  better  days  came, 
and  then  I could  afford  to  wear  two  shoes  at  once. 
The  whole  village  were  so  rejoiced  at  my  luck  that 
they  called  me  Little  Goody  Two  Shoes.  I am 
sure  I don’t  know  why  everybody  is  so  kind  to  me. 
C Enter  Jennie  Wren.) 

J.  W.  I know  your  tricks  and  your  manners. 
Everybody  is  kind  to  you  because  you  are  kind  to 
everybody. 

M".  I have  heard  all  about  your  school,  Goody, 
and  how  much  all  the  neighbors  thought  of  you. 

J.  W.  And  all  about  your  raven  Ralph,  your 
pigeon  Tom,  your  lark  Tippy,  and  your  lamb  Will. 

G.  T.  S.  Yes ; by  their  aid  I taught  the  children 
to  rise  with  the  lark  and  lie  down  with  the  lamb. 

M.  Don’t  go,  Goody  T wo  Shoes.  I should  like 
to  talk  with  you  longer. 

G.  T.  S.  I thank  you,  my  little  friend,  but  one  of 
my  neighbors  wants  my  help  about  something,  so 
I must  bid  you  good-bye  for  the  present.  {Exit.) 

J.  W.  Almost  as  quiet  and  as  sensible  as  a grown- 
up. I like  her. 

M.  Do  you  like  me,  too  ? 

/.  W.  Don’t  know  yet,  if  you  are  quiet  and 
sensible.  I don’t  like  children  in  general. 


M.  But  you  haven’t  told  me  who  you  are  yet. 

J.  W.  Nobody  but  Jennie  Wren.  Just  allow  me, 
will  you,  to  see  how  your  dress  is  cut.  I am  a 
dolls’  dressmaker,  and  I must  have  an  eye  to  busi- 
ness. (Enter  Jack  Horner  with  a pie  in  his  hand.) 

M.  Who  is  that  boy,  Jennie  ? 

J.  W.  That  is  Jack  Horner.  Now  just  watch 
him.  He’ll  sit  down  in  some  corner  and  eat  that 
pie  without  ever  asking  us  to  join  him.  I know 
his  tricks  and  his  manners.  (Jack  seats  himselj 
under  a tree  and  begins  to  eat.  Holds  up  a large 
plum.) 

J.  H.  Hurrah  ! What  a hero  I am,  to  be  sure  ! 
(Jack  the  Giant  Killer  rushes  in  with  a drawn  sword 
in  his  hand.) 

J.  G.  K.  You  a hero?  You  great  lump  of  sel- 
fishness ! A hero  is  one  who  acts  nobly  for  others, 
not  who  claims  all  good  things  for  himself.  Why 
don’t  you  share  that  pie  ? Get  up  out  of  that  cor- 
ner, and  make  yourself  of  some  use  in  the  world. 

J.  H.  What  right  have  you  to  dictate  to  me  ? 
Who  are  you,  I should  like  to  know  ? 

J.  G.  K.  I am  Jack  the  Giant  Killer,  and  I was 
born  to  redress  wrongs,  and  fight  for  the  right. 
Here  goes  for  Giant  Selfishness  ! 

J.  H.  Oh  ! oh  ! Don’t  kill  me.  You  may  have 
my  pie,  plums  and  all.  I have  eaten  all  I want. 
(Exit.) 

J.  G.  K.  I don’t  want  his  pie.  Allow  me,  ladies, 
to  offer  this  greedy  boy’s  dainty  where  it  is  better 
deserved. 

M.  I am  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I couldn’t 
think  of  taking  it. 

J.  IV.  Nor  I,  thank  you. 

J.  G.  K.  Then  I shall  take  it  to  the  Old  Woman 
who  Lives  in  the  Shoe.  How  she  contrives  to  feed 
all  those  children  is  a mystery  to  me.  (Exit.) 

252 


J.  Horner.  ( Looking  in.)  I know  where  I can 
gi  t another  pie,  at  Little  King  Boggen’s.  I shall 
take  a slice  right  out  of  his  front  door.  He  can 
easily  mend  it  again.  (Exit.) 

M.  What  does  that  ridiculous  boy  mean? 

/.  W.  Your  education  has  been  greatly  neglected 
if  you  have  never  heard  of  Little  King  Boggen, 
who  built  a fine  hall  entirely  of  pies  and  puddings, 
and  slated  with  pancakes.  It  is  one  of  the  curios- 
ities of  Story  Land.  But  I must  go  now.  There 
is  no  knowing  what  my  bad  child  may  be  up  to 
while  I am  away. 

M.  What  does  he  mean  ? {Enter  Little  Bo-Peep .) 

M.  Oh ! I know  who  you  are.  Who  are  you 
looking  for,  Little  Bo-Peep  ? 

L.  B.-P.  I have  lost  my  beautiful  white  sheep, 
and  I can’t  tell  where  to  find  them.  I have  looked 
up  the  meadow  and  down  the  meadow,  and  all 
through  the  woods  of  Story  Land. 

M.  Don’t  be  troubled  about  them,  Little  Bo- 
Peep.  Just  let  them  alone,  and  they  will  be  sure 
to  come  home  of  themselves. 

L.  B.-P.  Well,  perhaps  they  will.  One  day  they 
strayed  away  and  got  mixed  with  the  flocks  of 
Little  Boy  Blue,  while  he  was  asleep  in  the  meadow. 
I went  to  sleep,  too,  for  it  was  a very  warm  day, 
and  I had  wandered  to  the  borders  of  the  Land  of 
Nod,  where  the  air  is  always  drowsy.  Then  I 
dreamed  I heard  them  bleating  in  great  distress, 
but  when  I awoke  with  a start,  I found  it  was  all  a 
joke  of  Dickey  Dilver’s,  who  was  making  a noise 
to  imitate  them,  and  my  sheep  were  all  quietly 
feeding  near  by.  (A  voice  is  heard  singing) 

“ Little  Bo-Peep  has  lost  her  sheep. 

And  cannot  tell  where  to  find  ’em  ; 

Let  ’em  alone,  and  they’ll  come  home  ; 

With  their  true  loves  behind  ’em.” 

2 S3 


M.  Who  is  that? 

L.  B.-P.  Nobody  but  Tommy  Tucker,  singing 
for  his  supper.  He  always  has  the  best  of  white 
bread  and  butter,  but  he  has  no  knife  to  cut  it  with. 
I must  go  and  help  him.  But  I wish  I could  find 
my  sheep  first.  {Exit.  Enter  Puss  in  Boots.) 

P.  in  B.  Room  for  my  master,  the  great,  the 
good,  the  kind,  the  brave  Marquis  of  Carabas ! 

M.  Oh,  dear  ! What  shall  I do  in  the  presence 
of  so  mighty  a personage  ? {Enter  Marquis  of 
Carabas .) 

M.  of  C.  Good-morning,  little  maiden. 

M.  Good-morning,  sir.  I hope  your  lordship 
will  excuse  me  if  through  ignorance  I do  not  treat 
you  with  all  the  respect  due  to  your  distinguished 
name  and  position. 

M.  of  C.  Pray  do  not  treat  me  with  any  cere- 
mony. All  that  I have  I owe  to  the  disinterested 
services  of  my  friend,  the  illustrious  Puss  in  Boots. 

{Enter  page.) 

P.  My  lord  marquis,  the  King  of  Story  Land 
desires  your  attendance  at  the  royal  palace. 

M.  of  C.  I will  attend  upon  his  majesty  imme- 
diately. {Exeunt  M.  of  C.  and  P.  in  B.) 

P.  A singular  affair  ! a very  singular  affair. 

M.  What  is  it,  sir  ? 

P.  Haven’t  you  heard  of  it  ? But  I perceive 
you  are  a stranger  here.  You  must  know  that  I 
am  a page  in  the  palace,  so  I am  well  acquainted 
with  all  the  circumstances.  At  the  royal  break- 
fast this  morning  a bird  pie  was  set  before  his 
majesty,  a present  from  Little  KingBoggen,  whose 
skill  in  the  culinary  art,  as  well  as  his  peculiar  taste 
in  architecture  is  well-known.  The  pie  was  large 
and  unusually  tempting  in  appearance.  But  when 
it  was  cut,  imagine  the  consternation  of  the  king, 

254 


and  of  all  present,  when  twenty-tour  blackbirds 
immediately  flew  out  of  the  dish  and  began  to  sing. 
After  the  first  shock  of  surprise,  his  majesty  was 
rather  inclined  to  be  displeased  with  Little  King 
Boggen,  but  afterward  concluded  to  treat  the 
matter  as  a good  joke.  The  queen  remarked  that 
she  should  console  herself  for  the  disappointment 
by  partaking  of  her  favorite  refreshment  of  bread 
and  honey.  The  king  replied  that  he  had  lost  his 
appetite,  and  if  her  majesty  would  excuse  him  he 
would  repair  to  the  royal  treasury.  But  this  was 
not  the  last  of  the  birds.  While  one  of  the  maids 
employed  in  the  laundry  of  the  palace  was  engaged 
in  her  usual  occupation,  a blackbird  flew  suddenly 
out  of  the  window,  and  bit  her  nose  so  severely 
that  if  the  king’s  surgeon  had  not  immediately 
come  to  her  relief,  she  would  have  been  disfigured 
for  life.  A very  singular  affair  ! 

M.  It  is,  indeed,  sir.  ( Exit  page.  Enter  Little 
Nell.) 

L.  N.  Pray,  little  girl,  have  you  seen  my  grand- 
father, an  old  man  with  long  white  hair,  and  bright 
blue  eyes  ? He  has  gone  out  without  his  hat  and 
cloak,  and  I am  afraid  he  will  take  cold. 

M.  No,  1 have  not.  What  is  your  name,  little 
girl? 

L.  N.  They  call  me  Little  Nell. 

M.  Have  you  come  far?  You  look  very  tired. 

L.  N.  We  have  come  a long  way,  my  grand- 
father and  I,  but  we  have  found  a happy,  quiet 
place  now,  and  the  schoolmaster  is  very  kind  to 
us. 

M.  Sit  down  and  talk  with  me  here  a little  while. 
Don’t  shake  your  head  and  look  so  sorrowful. 

L.  N.  I am  not  sorrowful ; I am  happy.  But  I 
cannot  stay  with  you  now,  because  I must  find  my 

2 55 


grandfather.  I think  he  must  be  working  in  his 
garden,  and  he  will  want  me  to  help  him.  Perhaps 

1 '£■  r°mA  Kgam, ln  the  spring-  Good-bye.  P 
M Good-bye  dear  Little  Nell.  {Exit  Little  Nell) 

snrin,™  W1  ,hre-  ^ 1 think>  "'hen  the 

standi  l ?1CS'  (LtU/f  toll  appears  at  a distance . and 
stands  looking  sorrowfully  toivard  M ) 

M.  Come  with  me,  dear,  to  my  home.  I have 

anTr,SrnM°  ^ a fGW  Iittle  fr’eilds  to  supper! 
and  I should  so  like  to  have  you. 

/y  I cannot.  Oh,  I cannot ! {Exit.) 

{Little  Red  Riding-Hood  and  others  silently  enter 

one  by  one,  and  disappear  again) 

H °h>  come  all  of  you.  1 see  you,  Red  Riding, 
and  all  Clnd?ruella-  and  Goody  Two  Shoe!, 
home.  C°me  h mC  t0  SUpper  t0  ^ Peasant 

Vwesin  the  Distance.  We  cannot,  we  cannot. 

M.  i hear  your  voices,  but  I cannot  see  you  any 
longer.  Why  cannot  you  come?  * Y 

A Voice.  Because,  though  our  mission  is  to  give 
pleasure  to  you,  and  to  many  children  like  you,  we 

tK6  CSh  and  k^ood  1 we  cannot  cross  your 
threshold  nor  partake  of  earthly  fare.  You  must 
come  mto  our  country  when  you  would  behold  us 
and  talk  with  us,  for  though  we  never  grow  old 
.,jever  dl5>  are  but  shadows;  we  are  only 
Children  of  Fairy  Land.— From  Dialogues  and  Con- 
versations). 


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